voices in the little village choir. Though not overwhelmed with too much conscience, Phil was a thoroughly good boy, and one that his teachers and older friends petted without knowing exactly why they did so.
Beyond him sat his great friend and boon companion in all their athletic games, Bert Walsh, the doctor’s son, a lad whose poet’s face, with its great, liquid brown eyes, and whose slow, deliberate speech, gave mo indication of the force of character that lay below. Like Phil, he was fond of all out-of-door sports, but, unlike him, he was fond of books as well. A strong character, emphatic in its likes and dislikes, Bert’s finest trait was his high sense of honor, that was evident in his every act.
On the other side of Bess was the minister’s son, Teddy Preston, the oldest of eight children, a frank, healthy, happy boy, good and bad by turns, but irresistible even in his naughtiness. Brought up in a home where books and magazines were always at hand, though knees and toes might be a little shabby, Ted had contrived to pick up a vast amount of information about the world at large; and, added to that, he had
