“French,” said Brayton. “One of George Sands’s novels. One of these days you’ll get ready to take hold of such things.” “Oh!” exclaimed Val, “he’s picked up French. He talked German, too, for an hour at a time, with an old fellow we met at the seashore.” “Indeed,” exclaimed Brayton. “Do you know anything of Greek or Latin, Mr. Vernon?” “No, not a word; but I understand Spanish, and can talk it a little.” “English, French, German, Spanish, at seventeen! That’ll do. I’m not afraid of the rest. Your trouble won’t be in languages, but you’ve plenty of work cut out for you. I’ll take you in hand, at once, myself. Three hours’ study a day, my young friend, from now till school opens.” “There goes the fishing, Bar,” exclaimed Val, mournfully. “No, it don’t,” said Brayton. “To-morrow morning, Bar, you are to take your Latin grammar with you and go to the lake. I’ll hear you recite when you get home. Next day, Greek. Next, something else. Read right ahead, whether you understand it or not. We’ll see about that afterwards.” It seemed a curious way to begin with a new scholar, but it was the only method Brayton could think of for finding out precisely where Bar was, intellectually, and what he had better try to do with him. Such an odd fish of a scholar he had never before come in contact with. That afternoon the boys went over to the Academy with their new friend, and became as well posted as Zeb Fuller himself in the quantities and qualities of the various apparatus, old as well as new. Val took Bar, while Brayton was busy in the lecture-room, and showed him over the whole building. “Have you cut your name anywhere?” asked Bar. “No,” said Val, “but every boy is expected to before he goes away. If he does it too soon they expel him.” “I see,” laughed Bar. “Is that the bell-rope?” They were near the great front door of the main hall as he spoke, and Val answered: “Yes, but I wonder what it’s down for. If Zeb Fuller knew it there’d be music before twelve o’clock to-night.” “Who’s Zeb Fuller?” “The boy that chaffed you about Puff Evans,” said Val. “He’s one of the crowd that was too much for me last term. He’s a queer duck, but we must give him a lesson before long.” “Or he’ll give us one,” said Bar. “Well, we’ll see about that.” Val Manning was more than half right about that bell-rope. Zeb Fuller did know that it was “down,” and there was “music” before twelve o’clock that night. “Hiram Allen,” Zeb said to his next friend, as they came back from driving the cows to pasture, “this is a sad piece of business about Puff Evans and his boat. I think the Academy bell ought to be tolled.” “Maybe he won’t drown himself, after all,” said Hy. “Perhaps. Indeed, I fear not,” replied Zeb; “but he ought to, and so we must do our duty, not only by him but by the bell. It must be tolled, Hiram.” “If we can get in.” “I ascertained the condition of one of the front windows the day the new apparatus came,” said Zeb.