pendent, fought his way to Berkeley with the class of '82.
And then, in his freshman year, he was "fired"—for fighting. Joining the college fraternity that went in more for "fun," Heney was cited, in a college paper, as a terrible example of the demoralizing influence of secret societies; the article was anonymous. Heney demanded the name of the author and when the editor, a senior, refused it, attacked him. This happened at the railroad station. The senior drew a pistol and held the freshman at bay till the train started. Then he dropped his pistol hand and leaped upon a car. Heney sprang upon him and the two dangled there a moment. As the train gained headway, Heney's grip weakened and he dropped, but he caught the train and—the senior named the author: a fellow who had tried and failed to get into the fraternity.
Heney kept his own counsel absolutely; he deliberated all day and that night bought him a rawhide and a revolver. The whip was for the fellow who was "smaller than him"; the gun was to be used only it the smaller man should draw.
The two met at noon, coming out of class. Heney grasped his man by the collar, threw him on the floor and thrashed him till the fellow drew his gun. Dropping his whip, Heney grasped the weapon and there was a wrestling match till the crowd interfered.
A Challenge to a Duel
It was at this juncture that Heney committed the offense for which he was expelled. His victim, stung and humiliated, called out from the crowd that held him a taunt at the "brave man that would lick a fellow smaller than himself." Heney says that "hurt."
"Let him go," he called back; "give him his gun and I'll give him first shot."
The faculty could not forgive Heney for proposing a gun-play, and so, with a laugh outside but real sorrow within, he turned away to other things. His chance for a college education was gone.
But his chance for an education wasn't gone. Life, the rough life of the West, was to be Heney's teacher. He hadn't given up his instructorship at the night school and he went on there for awhile, reading, reading everything, but also he caroused. To get away from this, he applied for a school at Silver City, Idaho. It was a mining town in full blast and not every man could teach its school. The last teacher wasn't big enough, and Silver City sized up the new teacher, as most men would, for less than he was.
Heney does not look his part. He is five feet eight and a half inches in height, but slender; strong, but rather with nervous than muscular force. His head is round and his face is rosy, with a good deal of Irish in it, blond, amiable Irish. A firm chin, thin, close-set lips and a steady gaze out of the eyes—these show the man. But when he is in earnest and not in a temper he has a deprecating shake of the head and a wrinkly little smile that distracts attention from the eyes that mean business. And as for the fighting mouth, that is ever ready to laugh, a cackling, good-humored laugh. Moreover, Heney wears glasses and he came to Silver City in city clothes.
Teaching and Mining in Idaho
So when the big boys of the school opened the door of the hotel and looked in at the new teacher, they laughed.
"Get onto the dude," they said, and they told one another quite frankly in Heney's hearing what they would do to him. Heney laughed, his cackling, good-humored laugh; he foresaw what he would do to them.
And Heney made good with the boys, too, and from his success with them he drew a conclusion which has influenced his whole life. In Northern California, where also the school he had taught was called "bad," he had had to lay out some of his class with a piece of stove-wood while he licked the rest. In Silver City he used a little piece of string with a knot tied in the end of it; it hurt; but these boys will tell you that what did the business was the certainty they felt that their cackling, amiable teacher was "game and no bluffer."
"Boys are all right," Heney decided then, "and so are men. All the boys need to make them behave is the guidance of a good parent or a careful teacher, and the
