school.”

“I should miss you, if you wasn’t there,” replied Charlie, anxious to return the compliment.

“Don’t you know of some boy you could get into the school, Charlie?” asked Mr. Walton.

“I know of one who belongs to my club.”

“You belong to a club! What is the name of it?”

“The U. T. L. Club.”

“U. T. L.! What does that mean?”

“It is Miss Bertha Barry’s notion, sir,” explained Aunt Stanshy, with an air that was somewhat critical. Then she had noticed, or fancied that she had detected, that Mr. Walton, who was single, rather liked Miss Bertha and her ideas. He did not seem to notice Aunt Stanshy’s tone, but remarked,

“U. T. L.! That means ‘Up Too Late!’”

“Ha, ha, guess again,” replied the delighted Charlie.

“Useful To Learn!”

“No sir.”

“Up With The Lark!”

“You have got one word too many in there. ‘Up The’ is right.”

“Up The—Lane!”

“That’s where I live,” said Aunt Stanshy, proudly.

“Up The—”

“It’s ‘Up The Ladder,’ sir,” said Charlie.

“Well, Up-the-Ladder boys ought to be making advances and going ahead all the time.”

“That is what teacher says.”

“What do you do in the club?”

“We had a grand march yesterday, and we have a pammerrammer next Saturday.”

“All the boys in your club go to Sunday-school?”

“All except Tony.”

“Who is Tony?”

“He’s an Italian boy, and his father is away off.”

“Couldn’t you get him into your class?”

“I might try.”

“I will make the club an offer. If they will get five boys into school and keep them there two months, I will give them a banner.”

Charlie was delighted and promised to tell the boys in the club.

Mr. Walton here left Charlie and Aunt Stanshy, and went to his home. Aunt Stanshy greatly reverenced any one who led the worship of the congregation in the old church and encompassed such with a dignity-fence that was about as high as the famous steeple of old St. John’s, and that was a landmark for souls at sea.

Then there was a family mystery about Mr. Walton that fascinated Aunt Stanshy. He lived with his old white-haired mother, and there were hints and whispers that the two mourned over a once wayward and now absent member of the family. It leaked out that this was a son younger than Mr. Walton, and he had married a beautiful foreign lady whom the clergyman loved also, but had relinquished to the younger brother. This younger son was off somewhere on the sea, it was whispered; but he had a child ashore. On stormy days, it was noticed that the white-haired mother would watch the steeple, which consisted of a series of diminutive houses rising one above the other, as if ambitious to fly, but finally relinquishing the task into the hands or wings rather of a gilded weather-cock. The mother would watch the pigeons flying into their hiding-places in the steeple, seeking a refuge from the wild storm, and then her eyes would be lifted higher to the weather-vane, as if seeking for news about the sea-wind. Still higher went her thoughts—to God.

“She’s thinking of him, that son,” said the observant neighbors, who never knowingly gave up a chance to see something. To Aunt Stanshy this bit of mystery only made Mr. Walton all the more interesting.

Mr. Walton thought the next day he would fish for scholars in the Grimes neighborhood, where Tony lived. Billy and Rick, or “the governor,” as the club boys more generally called him now, lived in a long, low-roofed building that had two green doors. One door led into the home where lived Simes Badger when off duty at the light house. His wife took care of Tony. In the other part of the house lived Billy and the “governor” with Jotham and Ann Grimes. Billy was the child of Jotham and Ann. The “governor’s” parents lived in Dakota, but kept him at the East for the sake of an education in its better schools. It was after dark when Mr. Walton chanced to reach the long, low-roofed house, and “rap-rap” went his vigorous knuckles against green door number one.

“Who’s there?” sang out a boyish voice within.

“Tush, tush, Tony! Wait till I come,” said Simes from his little bedroom at one side of the kitchen. He was off duty, Jotham Grimes having gone to the light-house. “It may be some sailor who wants me,” added Simes. Mr. Walton, having heard a boy’s voice, concluded its owner must still be at the door, and he announced his errand.

“It’s rather late to call, but I wanted to know if you wouldn’t like to come into our Sunday-school?”

“No, your old Sunday-school may go to the bottom of the sea,” was the gruff reply of the disappointed Simes, who did not know his caller.

Mr. Walton felt that it might be prudent at that hour to withdraw, but he did not relinquish his intention to secure Tony; and Tony finally came to school.

The boy exceedingly interested the minister. “Where have I seen that face?” asked Mr. Walton, and with bowed head he sat in his study brooding over the problem, looking intently down as if trying to make out a pearl at the bottom of the sea.

Chapter IV.

The Pammerrammer.

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“Auntie, what do you think a couple of standing up collars would cost?”

“A standing up collar, Charles Pitt! What do you want that for?”

“Why, we have a pammerrammer to-morrow, and I am the one to ’splain it; that is, me or the governor.”

“He is gettin’ to be a man!” thought Aunt Stanshy in sorrow. “A pammerrammer!” she inquired. “I most get into that. Do you have spectators?”

“O, yes. It is only a cent a ticket, and that will get you a reserved seat.”

“Then I must take a reserved seat.”

Aunt Stanshy told the boys she would come whenever they notified her that the pammerrammer was ready. A lively shout of announcement soon came from half a dozen heralds up in the barn window, and Aunt Stanshy dropped her sewing.

“All ready, aunty! Come now,” shouted Charlie.

Aunt Stanshy quickened her steps into a run.

“There goes Stanshy,” said Simes Badger, watching her from Silas Trefethen’s grocery. “Runnin’ t’ a fire, I guess. She only needs an engine behind her t’ make the thing complete.”

Flying through the yard, Aunt Stanshy rushed up the barn chamber stairs. Passing the “sentinel” with the powerful aid of a cent, she looked around upon the chamber. In its center there was a stout wooden post, and between this post and a closet, at one end of the chamber, there had been suspended a dirty, ragged sheet, which the governor’s aunt had taken from the attic and given to the club. Across this sheet stretched a panoramic strip of paper which Aunt Stanshy at once recognized as Charlie’s handiwork. It took two boys, Sid and Wort, to stand at the two ends of the curtain and manage the “pammerrammer.” As Sid unrolled the glorious succession of artistic beauties that Charlie had sketched, Wort at the other end pulled them along and rolled them up. In front of the curtain was ranged a plank. A carpenter’s bench that bordered a wall of the barn supported one end of the plank, and a barrel the other end. This elevated roost was denominated “reserved seats,” and all cent admissions secured “one of the most eligible chances in the Hall,” so Sid declared. There was a string of sweet little beauties on the bench, girls from the neighborhood, and among them was little May Waters, her face one of wonderful vivacity, a kind of panorama in itself, where the most varied emotions chased one another in rapid