Sons of Fortune

“What happens next?”

“I don’t know, but I wish it would,” said Tom as the clock struck nine, and everyone fell silent.

A crocodile of masters proceeded down the aisle—no mistresses, Nat observed. His mother wouldn’t approve. They walked up onto the stage, and took their places, leaving only two seats unoccupied. The faculty began to talk quietly among themselves, while those in the body of the hall remained silent.

“What are we waiting for?” whispered Nat, and a moment later his question was answered as everyone rose, including those seated on the stage. Nat didn’t dare look around when he heard the footsteps of two men proceeding down the aisle. Moments later, the school chaplain followed by the principal passed him on their way up to the two vacant seats. Everyone remained standing as the chaplain stepped forward to conduct a short service, which included the Lord’s Prayer, and ended with the assembly singing the “Battle Hymn of the Republic.”

The chaplain then returned to his seat, allowing the principal to take his place. Alexander Inglefield paused for a moment, before gazing down at the assembled gathering. He then raised his hands, palms down, and everyone resumed their seat. Three hundred and eighty pairs of eyes stared up at a man of six foot two with thick bushy eyebrows and a square jaw, who presented such a frightening figure that Nat hoped they would never meet.

The principal gripped the edge of his long black gown before addressing the gathering for fifteen minutes. He began by taking his charges through the long history of the school, extolling Taft’s past academic and sporting achievements. He stared down at the new boys and reminded them of the school’s motto, Non ut sibi ministretur sed ut ministret.

“What does that mean?” whispered Tom.

“Not to be served, but to serve,” muttered Nat.

The principal concluded by announcing that there were two things a Bearcat could never afford to miss—an exam, or a match against Hotchkiss—and, as if making clear his priorities, he promised a half-day’s holiday if Taft beat Hotchkiss in the annual football game. This was immediately greeted by a rousing cheer from the whole assembly, although every boy beyond the

third row knew that this had not been achieved for the past four years.

When the cheering had died down, the principal left the stage, followed by the chaplain and the rest of the staff. Once they had departed, the chattering began again as the upper classmen started to file out of the hall, while only those boys in the front three rows remained seated, because they didn’t know where to go.

Ninety-five boys sat waiting to see what would happen next. They did not have long to wait, because an elderly master—well actually he was only fifty-one, but Nat thought he looked much older than his dad—came to a halt in front of them. He was a short, thick-set man, with a semicircle of gray hair around an otherwise bald pate. As he spoke, he clung onto the lapels of his tweed jacket, imitating the principal’s pose.

“My name is Haskins,” he told them. “I am master of the lower middlers,” he added with a wry smile. “We’ll begin the day with orientation, which you will have completed by first break at ten thirty. At eleven you will attend your assigned classes. Your first lesson will be American history.” Nat frowned, as history had never been his favorite subject. “Which will be followed by lunch. Don’t look forward to that,” Mr. Haskins said with the same wry smile. A few of the boys laughed. “But then that’s just another Taft tradition,” Mr. Haskins assured them, “which any of you who are following in your father’s footsteps will have already been warned about.” One or two of the boys, including Tom, smiled.

Once they had begun what Mr. Haskins described as the nickel and dime tour, Nat never left Tom’s side. He seemed to have prior knowledge of everything Haskins was about to say. Nat quickly discovered that not only was Tom’s father a former alumni, but so was his grandfather.

By the time the tour had ended and they had seen everything from the lake to the sanatorium, he and Tom were best friends. When they filed into the classroom twenty minutes later, they automatically sat next to each other.

As the clock chimed eleven, Mr. Haskins marched into the room. A boy followed in his wake. He had a self-assurance about him, almost a swagger, that made every other boy look up. The master’s eyes also followed the new pupil as he slipped into the one remaining desk.

“Name?”

“Ralph Elliot.”

“That will be the last time you will be late for my class while you’re at Taft,” said Haskins. He paused. “Do I make myself clear, Elliot?”

“You most certainly do.” The boy paused, before adding, “Sir.”

Mr. Haskins turned his gaze to the rest of the class. “Our first lesson, as I warned you, will be on American history, which is appropriate remembering that this school was founded by the brother of a former president.” With a portrait of William H. Taft in the main hall and a statue of his brother in the quadrangle, it would have been hard for even the least inquisitive pupil not to have worked that out.

“Who was the first president of the United States?” Mr. Haskins asked. Every hand shot up. Mr. Haskins nodded to a boy in the front row.

“George Washington, sir.”

“And the second?” asked Haskins. Fewer hands rose, and this time Tom was selected.

“John Adams, sir.”

“Correct, and the third?”

Only two hands remained up, Nat’s and the boy who had arrived late. Haskins pointed to Nat.

“Thomas Jefferson, 1800 to 1808.”

Mr. Haskins nodded, acknowledging that the boy also knew the correct dates, “And the fourth?”

“James Madison, 1809 to 1817,” said Elliot.