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Title: Barry Locke, half-back
Author: Ralph Henry Barbour
Illustrator: C. M. Relyea
Release date: March 5, 2026 [eBook #78118]
Language: English
Original publication: New York: The Century Co, 1925
Other information and formats: www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/78118
Credits: Produced by Donald Cummings and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team at https://www.pgdp.net
*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK BARRY LOCKE, HALF-BACK ***
BARRY LOCKE
HALF-BACK
[Illustration: “I THOUGHT I’D BETTER WAIT AROUND AND GIVE YOU A HAND”]
BARRY LOCKE
HALF-BACK
BY
RALPH HENRY BARBOUR
Author of “THE CRIMSON SWEATER,” “HARRY’S ISLAND,”
“TEAM-MATES,” “THE TURNER TWINS,” Etc.
ILLUSTRATED BY
C. M. RELYEA
[Illustration]
THE CENTURY CO.
_New York & London_
COPYRIGHT, 1925, BY
THE CENTURY CO.
PRINTED IN U. S. A.
CONTENTS
CHAPTER PAGE
I BARRY LOCKE ARRIVES 3
II JONES LENDS A HAND 22
III BARRY MAKES A PURCHASE 37
IV “PUP NIGHT” 46
V FESSENDEN FIDDLES 59
VI “PEACHES” 71
VII DRAFTED 84
VIII WITH THE SQUAD 97
IX BARRY SHOWS HIS STUFF 109
X STATION W.L.L.O. BROADCASTS 122
XI MURRAY SCHOOL THREATENS 137
XII CLYDE ASKS A FAVOR 146
XIII BETTY CONFIDES 156
XIV BARRY SEEKS ADVICE 172
XV CLYDE LOSES HIS TEMPER 181
XVI MR. BENJY LOSES INTEREST 193
XVII CLYDE APOLOGIZES 204
XVIII UNDER COVER 213
XIX THE NEW TYPEWRITER 229
XX THE OLD DESK REPAYS KINDNESS 248
XXI A MYSTERY SOLVED 261
XXII UP THE MOUNTAIN 275
XXIII EVEN-STEVEN 284
XXIV “LOCKE BACK!” 299
XXV ZO PLAYS 310
XXVI THE RIGHT SORT 321
ILLUSTRATIONS
FACING
PAGE
“I THOUGHT I’D BETTER WAIT AROUND AND GIVE YOU A
HAND” _Frontispiece_
“KEEP YOUR HEAD, BOY, LOCK YOUR LEG, AND WHAM IT!” 146
“ALL RIGHT, DAVY,” CALLED PEACHES, SOFTLY 220
“EVER SEE THAT BEFORE?” 270
BARRY LOCKE――HALF-BACK
BARRY LOCKE
HALF-BACK
CHAPTER I
BARRY LOCKE ARRIVES
Barry didn’t wait for the conductor’s announcement. He was at the car
door before the little Connecticut village came into sight. There was
a glimpse of South Street, shaded, asleep in the afternoon sunshine,
and then the freight-shed interposed a blank yellow countenance. Barry
shifted the light overcoat on his arm――he had wanted to put it in
the trunk, but his mother, suspicious of September in the hills, had
overruled him――and picked up his suit-case just as the conductor bawled
past him, into the hot, dusty interior:
“Wessex! Wessex! Change for Sanborn Mills, Mount Sippick, and Alden!
_We-e-essex!_”
The station threw a welcome shadow and the train stopped. Barry
descended, his brown eyes alight, a smile, slightly shy, already
curving his lips. Others, crowding about him, sent him deeper into the
shade of the platform, his gaze still questing. At least a score of
boys had alighted, and these, mingling with almost as many previous
occupants of the platform, made for sound and confusion. Friends parted
since June sighted one another with loud hails and plowed determinedly
toward a reunion, heedless of all between.
No one, however, took notice of the fifteen-year-old boy who, puzzled
and disappointed, still viewed the fast thinning throng. He was worth
notice, too. Very straight he was, and rather slender; although the
slenderness suggested the process of development rather than the lack
of it. He had brown hair, and eyes that may have been intended to
match it but didn’t because they were very much warmer in tone. Rather
arresting eyes they were, and perhaps the best feature of a countenance
which, while in no way suggesting the classic beauty of Apollo, was
undeniably attractive. The nose was a perfectly good nose, but you
had to stop there; and the mouth was all right, too, and had a nice
smile; and there was the usual chin and forehead, and a coating of tan,
and――well, that’s about all there is to tell――and I haven’t made you
see John Barry Locke as he really looked, after all.
I fancy it was Barry’s expression rather than his features that made
folks warm to him and want to know him and do nice things for him, and
expressions are difficult to portray in print. Perhaps the simplest
way to describe him is to say that Barry looked, in his boyishly eager
yet shy fashion, as though he were ready to like everybody else! Yes,
I think that was the secret of his attraction――just friendliness. And
yet there was something beyond that, too; something promised in those
deep-brown eyes that looked at one so straightly. Maybe it was loyalty.
The last flivver had honked off into silence and the afternoon’s event,
the arrival and departure of the four-eighteen train, had passed into
history. Barry gave up his quest and followed the route taken by the
others, along the platform to the corner of the station and thence
across an area of sun-smitten gravel to the main thoroughfare of
Wessex. His suit-case wasn’t heavy, and he wasn’t going to mind the
walk; only, he didn’t understand why Clyde hadn’t met him as he had
promised. And then, quite abruptly, Clyde was there.
Clyde was rather warm of face and a trifle breathless, a condition
that caused him to voice his greeting in tones of resentment rather
than apology:
“Well! Got here, eh? Gosh, but it’s warm! How are you?”
“Great,” answered Barry, with an enthusiasm the other considered quite
uncalled for. “What time did you get here, Clyde?”
“About a quarter-past two. We had a flat, and lost ten minutes, I
guess. That new chauffeur of Dad’s is a dumb-bell. All thumbs.”
“Dumb-bells are like that,” chuckled Barry. Clyde Allen glanced
questioningly at him and then frowned. Barry had an irritating way
of making jokes that Clyde didn’t fathom. The boys were proceeding
unhurriedly along Main Street, Barry still in possession of bag and
overcoat. Clyde had made a none too emphatic reach for the suit-case,
but Barry had shaken his head and tightened his grasp on it. Now the
latter asked:
“How far is this room of mine, Clyde?”
“Oh, just a little way. Not quite out to the school. You understand how
it was about the other place, don’t you?”
“Why, yes, I guess so,” replied Barry. “Anyhow, it’s all right. I
mean――oh, of course I’m disappointed, Clyde, because I did want to get
into a dormitory, but if I can’t, I can’t.”
“Sure!” agreed the other, with evident relief. “Anyhow, you aren’t
missing anything. Lots of the fellows would be glad to be where you
are. Being outside gives you a heap more――more freedom. And Mrs. Lyle’s
is the best of all the private houses. Gosh! I was disappointed, too,
old top, when Hal sprung it on me! I thought of course he was going in
with Pete Johnston, but Pete fixed up a deal with another chap so he
could get into Meddill, and so――well, Hal had no place to go and the
least I could do was to tell him to stay. I thought of course you’d be
able to get on the campus. But everything’s chockablock this fall. A
whole bunch of chaps have had to go outside, I hear.”
“Are there any other fellows at Mrs. Lyle’s?”
“Yes, I believe she said she had two others. You’ll like it there.
She’s a good scout――Mrs. Lyle. I knew a fellow who was there last year
and he was crazy about it.”
“Is he there now?” asked Barry.
“No, he’s in Dawson this year. He’s in the First, and of course
First-Class fellows want to be on the campus. Last year, you know,
and――and all that.”
“I suppose so,” Barry responded. “Well, I dare say I’ll get along fine
at Mrs. Lyle’s, Clyde, and you mustn’t bother about me.”
“Sure! And you must use our room like it was your own, Barry. Hal said
I was to tell you that. Lots of times you won’t want to go back to
Lyles’ between recitations, and you can come up to Forty-two and make
yourself at home.... That’s the Town Hall over there. Looks like a
relic, doesn’t it? And that’s the Methodist church.”
“Sort of a pretty town,” said Barry.
“Well, yes, but it’s a dead old hole. Only one movie, and that’s
upstairs over the post-office! But the school’s all right. Corking lot
of fellows. I’ll take you around to-morrow and show you the ropes. It’s
a bit late to-day. Say, why didn’t your folks bring you over in the
car? I was sure surprised when you ’phoned me yesterday that you were
going by train.”
“Dad had to go to Hudson on some business and needed the car. He wanted
me to take it, but I didn’t see any sense in that. Besides, the train
was pretty good fun. I hadn’t been on one for a couple of years.”
“I haven’t, either. I’ve got no use for them. Give me an auto every
time. Say, I shouldn’t be surprised if there weren’t any railroad
trains pretty soon! Almost every one has some sort of a car. Oh, well,
for long trips, like out to Chicago, or to San Francisco, maybe. But I
guess we’ll be doing that by airships before long.... You can see Croft
Hall now, if you look past the end of that barn. Dawson’s this side of
it, but it’s behind the trees. The Lyles’ house is beyond this one.
This is Stimson’s. He’s our math instructor.”
Barry wasn’t following Clyde’s chatter very closely. For one thing,
the lightest suit-case will become a burden toward the end of three
quarters of a mile, and an overcoat on a warm day is no comfort, even
if hung over the arm. Besides, Barry found more interest in the scene
than in his friend’s remarks. There were times when he thought Clyde’s
talk a trifle vapid, and this was one of them. He always tried to
banish that thought, however, for he liked Clyde, and, too, owed him a
debt of gratitude. They had left the town well behind and were going
southward on a well-paved road beside which, at intervals, modest
houses, usually flanked by barn and stable, stood back of neat shaded
lawns.
On the right stretched a wide meadow. Now and then Barry caught the
glint of sunlight on the surface of a little river that wound through
it, and, far ahead, a cluster of farm buildings well away from the
road dozed in the shade of four giant elms. What interested him more,
though, was the white dwelling that presently emerged to view beyond
the end of an old red barn.
As they neared it Barry experienced a sense of disappointment. It was
two stories in height, and the peaked roof presented so many warped and
broken shingles that it was difficult to credit it with efficiency. But
the white paint was fresh, there were flowers about the low veranda
across the front, and the windows, between their green blinds, were
hung with clean muslin curtains. Rather a box of a house, thought
Barry, and one promising few luxuries. Not that he demanded luxuries,
exactly; but, until a few days since, he had looked forward to being in
Dawson Hall, and this was very unlike what he had pictured Dawson to be.
There was a somewhat decrepit picket fence in front, and a gate which
obligingly swung inward or outward, but creaked complainingly either
way. A short brick walk between narrow beds of salvia and geraniums and
flaming nasturtiums led to the open doorway. It also led to a boy who
sat on the edge of the low porch and, clasping a knee in a pair of
very brown hands, unwinkingly observed their approach. However, when
they had traversed half the walk he spoke.
“Hello, Allen,” he said.
“Hello,” answered Clyde; and then, as Barry dropped his suit-case and
reached for his handkerchief, he added perfunctorily: “This is Mr.
Locke, Mr. Jones. You fellows might as well get acquainted. Didn’t know
you hung out here, though, Jones.”
The boy on the porch arose and shook hands with Barry. He had hair that
was neither brown nor red but some shade between, a lean, deeply tanned
face, two very blue eyes, and a smile that Barry liked immensely. But
the smile vanished when the youth dropped again to his seat and replied
to Clyde:
“That’s strange, I’ve been here some time.”
“Oh,” said Clyde, in the tone of one dismissing an unimportant topic.
“Well, we’d better find Mrs. Lyle, Barry.”
“She’s gone to town,” said Jones. “Locke’s room is in front, on this
side.” He pointed a thumb over his left shoulder. “You can’t miss it.”
“I’ll go up with you,” said Clyde. “Oh, by the way, what about your
trunk? Did you give your check to the man at the station?”
Barry shook his head ruefully:
“I didn’t think a thing about it!”
“You’re a wonder!” jeered Clyde. “Guess it’s a good thing you’ve got me
here to look after you, kid.”
“I beg your pardon?” said Jones, somewhat surprisingly.
“I was speaking to Locke,” answered Clyde, shortly. Barry saw the scowl
that accompanied the words, and wondered. Jones nodded imperturbably.
“My error,” he murmured. His gaze returned to the road.
Clyde led the way inside, along a narrow hall, and up a stairway. He
was muttering to himself, but Barry caught fragments. “Fresh bounder”
was one of them. Evidently Clyde and the brown-skinned youth downstairs
were not very friendly. Clyde seemed to have regained his equanimity,
however, by the time they reached the second floor. There were four
doors in sight, one at the head of the stairs, one, that of the
bath-room, half-way along the hall, and two more after the stair-well
had been passed. That to the right was barely ajar, the other stood
wide. Clyde, in advance, paused impressively on the threshold and waved
a hand.
“Here you are,” he proclaimed congratulatingly. “How’s this, old top?”
Barry looked past him over a shoulder. There was a protracted moment of
silence. Then, rather haltingly, rather faintly, Barry replied:
“Why, it――it’s very nice, isn’t it?”
* * * * *
“You’d better get the expressman on the ’phone pretty soon,” advised
Clyde, from across the front gate a few minutes later, “and have him
call for your check. He will probably ask you seventy-five cents, but
don’t pay more than fifty. That’s the regular price. Well, glad you
like the room, Barry. Come over a little before six and I’ll take you
around to Bates. Wish I could stay longer, but I promised to see a
fellow at five.”
“That’s all right,” said Barry. “Thanks for getting me fixed up.”
Clyde nodded and went briskly off in the direction of school, a rather
large, fairly tall lad, well set up, very carefully and a trifle
expensively dressed. He was bareheaded, and his dark hair glistened in
the sunlight, every lock carefully plastered into place. Clyde Allen
was a good-looking fellow, and he wasn’t entirely unconscious of the
fact. Barry thought him extremely handsome and didn’t blame him in the
least for being――well, just a bit vain. He watched until Clyde passed
from view, and then went back to the porch.
Jones had disappeared during their visit to the room. Barry wasn’t
sorry, for he had already concluded that he wasn’t going to like Jones
very well. Barry found it difficult actually to dislike any one, but
there were degrees of liking. He took Jones’s place on the edge of the
porch and, stretching his knickered legs before him, thrust his hands
into his pockets and surveyed the world and the future.
The world was quite all right, a warm, scented, sunlit world. Wessex
lay in a hollow formed by two ranges of hills, disputing the little
valley with the East Fork River. Directly in front of Barry, across
the road, stood a white house very like the one behind him. From an
upstairs window of it came faint, tentative sounds as of a bow being
drawn lightly across the strings of a violin. They were not unpleasant.
Beyond the opposite dwelling the land ran levelly to a marsh streaked
in the lengthening rays of the sun with russet and pinkish brown. Half
a mile away the hills began, climbing steeply to a dome-shaped mountain
on the north and waving southward in a series of lesser elevations.
Cows were grazing below the knoll that held the shaded farm buildings,
and a bell tinkled at intervals. Yes, the world was a perfectly good
world, and Barry approvingly dismissed it from his thoughts and
reverted to that second subject, the future.
Somehow Broadmoor School had disappointed him. Or, since save for a
hasty glance from a window of his room he had not yet seen the school,
the circumstances attending his arrival had disappointed him. First
there had been Clyde’s failure to meet him punctually. Then there had
been his introduction to that upstairs room. It had been five days
since he learned that he was not to share Number 42 Dawson with his
friend, and so that disappointment was no longer fresh, but――well, the
substitute for the dormitory room was rather awful. Barry had assured
Clyde that it was quite satisfactory, but that was just because he
hadn’t wanted to hurt Clyde’s feelings.
To be sure, the room was clean and neat, but it was also threadbare;
and the five pieces of furniture, a nondescript assemblage, looked
horribly inadequate. There were the remains――Barry couldn’t think of
a kinder word――of an ingrain art-square in the middle of the floor, a
thing of faded greens and yellows, its borders frayed and its startling
pattern relieved by many lapses of the fabric. It looked very lonely,
for it was not a large carpet and the room, whatever else might be said
of it, was spacious. Between the edges of the carpet and the walls lay
broad expanses of painted floor, expanses of awful greenish gray that
jarred Barry’s sensibilities. As though in atonement for the floor,
the plastered walls had been unevenly calcimined in pale pink. Barry
shuddered at the recollection.
He couldn’t help contrasting that upstairs chamber of horrors with his
rooms at home, and he wondered if it were possible to live contentedly
with that floor and those bare walls for eight long months. Of course
he could send home for things or buy them in the village, but what
could any one put up there that would look as though it belonged? He
wondered whether, after all, he was going to like Broadmoor. He had
taken Clyde’s word for everything. They had been chums――well, not
exactly chums, perhaps, but friends――for years, had gone to high school
together, lived within three houses of each other in Hazen, New York,
and shared acquaintances and interests.
Clyde had come to Broadmoor the year before; he was sixteen years
old to Barry’s fifteen, and a class ahead of him, and Barry had
quite naturally chosen Broadmoor too. His parents had approved
enthusiastically, for they shared Barry’s admiration for Clyde. The two
boys were to room together, of course; that had been understood right
along, until last week. Then this Stearns fellow, a Second Classman
like Clyde, had spoiled that. Barry wondered whether or not Clyde was
really disappointed. He had said he was, but somehow his tone hadn’t
carried conviction. And, after all, it was natural enough for Clyde to
prefer a fellow of his own age as room-mate. Barry could understand
that, of course, only――well, gee! look what it had done to him!
He hadn’t forgotten about his trunk, but in his present mood that
article didn’t seem very important. Nevertheless, if the matter were
to be attended to it was high time he bestirred himself, for it was
almost a quarter after five. He got up with a sigh for wasted dreams
and sought the telephone inside. He was putting the receiver back when
the doorway was darkened and a pleasant voice said:
“Is that you, Crawford? Would you mind taking this basket of grapes
before――”
“Not at all,” said Barry. “I’m not Crawford, though. I suppose you’re
Mrs. Lyle.” He rescued the grapes and drew aside, smiling.
“Why, gracious!” exclaimed the lady; “so you aren’t! You must be the
new boy. Is it Key? No, not――”
“Locke!” laughed Barry. “It’s the next thing to Key, though. Shall I
take these――”
“Oh, you mustn’t trouble!” Mrs. Lyle was plainly flustered. “If you’ll
just put them on top, I’m sure――”
“Better not, I guess,” Barry demurred. The landlady’s arms were already
laden to capacity with packages, and one, plainly labeled “Fresh Eggs,”
looked none too secure.
“Then if you’ll just bring them into the dining-room,” said Mrs. Lyle.
“I hate to take any one into it, too.” She opened a door at the end of
the hall. “Betty’s been away all day and I’ve been so busy――”
Evidently unfinished sentences were the fashion with her, Barry decided
as he followed her into a room which, while it had apparently not
been “picked up” since morning, was pleasantly homy in spite of its
shabbiness. Evidently, too, it was Mrs. Lyle’s custom to give the maid
the whole day off. He set the small basket of grapes on the bright-red
cloth of the table and rescued the eggs, now on the very verge of
demolition. Mrs. Lyle murmured relief, disencumbered herself of the
remaining packages, and smiled at Barry. And right then Barry became
her devoted subject.
She was small and slight, faded and rather tired-looking; but one knew
that not so many years before she had been a very pretty girl. When she
smiled she was still pretty. There was a quality in that smile that
imbued Barry with an instant desire to perform some service for her. He
wondered if she needed any wood chopped or――or anything. He couldn’t
remember ever having chopped any wood, but he was eager to do it!
“I hope you found everything all right in your room,” Mrs. Lyle was
saying. “I meant to be here when you arrived, but I forgot my purse and
had to come back for it, and so――”
“Oh, yes, thanks!” he declared emphatically. “Everything is fine! That
is――well, I wonder, Mrs. Lyle, if I might have a table. Of course if
you don’t happen to have one on hand I can get along perfectly.”
“A table? Why――but――goodness gracious! there _is_ a table! I mean there
_was_ a table! Are you sure――”
“It really doesn’t matter,” Barry said earnestly. Mrs. Lyle’s agitation
made him regret extremely the introduction of the subject.
“But of course it matters! I’ll go up and see what――”
Barry followed her. Mrs. Lyle looked perplexedly at Barry.
“Why, I don’t see what――where――” Then, however, perplexity vanished. “I
know where it is.” She nodded, with conviction. “You wait a minute.”
She went out and along the hall. Curious, Barry followed as far as the
door. Mrs. Lyle had stopped before the closed portal at the head of the
stairs and was knocking on it.
“Toby! Toby Nott!” she called. There were faint sounds from beyond the
door, then a slightly querulous voice answered:
“Yes’m Mrs. Lyle?”
“Open the door, Toby.”
“I can’t! I――oh, well, all right; only, I’m terribly busy, Mrs. Lyle.”
The end of the sentence was delivered through a six-inch aperture.
“I’m sorry,” said Mrs. Lyle, “but you can’t have that table, Toby.”
“Huh? What table?”
“The one that was in Mr. Key’s room. You’ll have to put it back, Toby.”
Mrs. Lyle strove to speak firmly, but succeeded only in sounding
apologetic.
“Oh, thunder!” replied an aggrieved voice. “I need that table,
awfully.” The door opened wider, disclosing a strange apparition――a
boy in a bath-robe of barbaric coloring; a tall, extremely thin youth
with unkempt black hair above a pale, annoyed countenance, and a pair
of round spectacles which lent him the likeness of a perturbed owl. One
hand held a glass jar in which some livid object floated nauseatingly
in a cloudy fluid, the other a squirming, palpitant green frog of
heroic proportions. There was a shriek from Mrs. Lyle, a startled grunt
from the boy, and the frog leaped into space.
“Now!” cried Toby Nott, anguish on his face. “Now see what you’ve done!”
CHAPTER II
JONES LENDS A HAND
The frog’s name was Antonio, explained the boy in the bath-robe as he
and Barry began the search. He had been having his supper――that is,
Antonio had――when Mrs. Lyle knocked. He had refused to eat and Toby had
been obliged to resort to forcible feeding. He had brought Antonio from
home, and of course the frog hadn’t had time to get used to the place
yet. Maybe he had gone downstairs.
He had. Barry found him under the telephone table. He seemed
very nervous, Barry thought, which was not unnatural under the
circumstances. Toby recaptured him expertly and bore him back upstairs.
Mrs. Lyle, recovered from her shock, was inclined to be tragic.
“Really, Toby, I don’t see how I can allow you to keep such dreadful
things in your room! I don’t mind the――the bugs, because they’re
dead, and last year I said nothing when you had those snakes in the
cracker-box, but things that jump, like frogs, and scare folks to
death――”
Toby viewed her in genuine surprise from behind the thick lenses of his
spectacles.
“Why, Mrs. Lyle, frogs won’t hurt you! Anyway, I’m going to have an
aquarium for him just as soon as I can find one. And that’s what I need
that table for. I just don’t see how I can do without it.”
Barry didn’t, either. Just now the table, which was a small affair, was
loaded with jars and tin boxes and various other articles, and if Toby
moved them they must, it seemed, go on the floor, since every other
surface appeared fully occupied. It was a strange apartment that Barry
viewed from the doorway. How its occupant managed to get around in it
was a mystery. Barry counted four tables, including the one recently
acquired, three packing-boxes substituting as tables, and a bench, the
latter evidently home-made. Then there were shelves on every side, it
seemed, and all were full. Barry caught glimpses of impaled butterflies
and moths and beetles, of gruesome objects in bottles and jars, of
receptacles of whose unseen contents he was more than suspicious, and
felt thankful for the impenetrable if unlovely wall that stood between
Toby Nott’s room and his!
“But, Toby,” Mrs. Lyle was protesting weakly, “it belongs in Mr. Key’s
room, and it’s the only one I have left. You’ll really have to――”
“It doesn’t matter a bit,” declared Barry. “Fact is, I’ve got a table
coming and Nott is quite welcome to this one.”
Toby Nott looked his gratitude and pulled his bath-robe more decorously
about him. Most of the buttons were gone and eternal vigilance was the
price of modesty. Mrs. Lyle said, “Well――” relievedly and yielded.
Outside again, with Toby Nott’s door firmly closed on their retreat,
she shook her head, sighed, and then smiled as one who realizes her
weakness.
“I suppose I ought to have made him put it back,” she said. “If Betty
were here―― She’s the only one who can do anything with him. If it
weren’t for Betty he’d have――have――goodness gracious! I don’t know
what he wouldn’t have in there! He’s a dear boy, though. Well, now, if
everything isn’t satisfactory―― Of course you won’t find things here as
you’re used to them at home, but we do want you to be comfortable, and
if there’s anything I’ve forgotten――”
Mrs. Lyle was interrupted by the expressman. Barry yielded his check,
left a half-dollar with the landlady, washed up, and hurried off toward
school, already late for his appointment with Clyde. The school
grounds began a stone’s throw from the Lyle house, their limit marked
by a stone wall which, reaching the road, became more ornamental as
it turned and went on to the nearer of the two gates. Stone pillars
guarded the entrance, and on the left-hand one was a modest panel
bearing the announcement: “BROADMOOR SCHOOL――EST. 1886.” The curving
driveway was lined with maples and as they still held their leaves, it
was not until Barry had progressed some distance that he obtained a
real view of the buildings.
Rather plain, they were, conservatively Colonial all. Croft, toward
which the drive led, was a large structure of red brick with gray-stone
trim, its slate roof broken in the center by a squat belfry. Farther
back and to the left was Dawson Hall, newer but so wrapped about in ivy
as to seem a contemporary of the original building. Occupying a similar
location to the right was Meddill, the other dormitory. Bates, most
recent of all, stood behind Croft, completing the quadrangle. Viewed
under the ruddy rays of the sinking sun, shaded here and there by elms
and maples, the buildings looked friendly and hospitable, and Barry’s
heart warmed to them. Maybe he was going to like Broadmoor, after all!
He found the school office without difficulty and the operation of
registering was soon over. He didn’t expect to find Clyde in the
dormitory, for it was already past six, but he made his way up the
stone stairway to the second floor and looked for Number 42. The
building was evidently utterly deserted and the long corridor stretched
before him dim and silent. The door of Clyde’s room was ajar and after
knocking Barry thrust it wider and peered in. It was lighter than the
corridor and showed itself much as Clyde had described it, a generously
large, square room with rough-plastered walls and a beamed ceiling.
A big study table, book-shelves, several comfortable chairs, and a
window-seat piled high with cushions met Barry’s somewhat wistful gaze.
A curtained alcove, now a pocket of gloom, opened at the left. It
looked awfully good to the boy in the doorway. All this might have been
his if――
His wandering eyes lighted on an object atop one of the low bookcases
and the thought went unfinished. What he saw was his picture, the
one on horseback taken at Orchard Bluff two summers before. It
wasn’t occupying a very prominent position amidst the assemblage of
photographs there, but its presence cheered Barry considerably and he
made his way back down the stairs and out into the twilight without
further thought of what might have been.
The dining-hall occupied the north wing of Bates Memorial Hall and a
hum of voices and a cheerful clatter of dishes guided him unerringly to
the entrance.
The sight of some two hundred and sixty hungry boys at supper may not
be inspiring, but it is at least interesting, and Barry paused at the
wide doorway to look. The room seemed vast, and the three ranks of
tables appeared to stretch away interminably. A round clock in the
center of the opposite wall proclaimed six-twelve. The captain of the
waiters caught sight of the tardy arrival and piloted him half-way
along the first aisle, to a vacant chair at Table 7. Food was placed
before him, a hospitable neighbor set a huge pitcher of milk beside
him, and Barry supped, relieved to discover that none of the other nine
occupants of the table paid him more than brief attention. The food was
good and there was plenty of it,――more than plenty, so far as Barry was
concerned, since travel and the heat had tired him,――and his hunger was
soon satisfied.
Most of those who sat with him were fellows of about his own age,
although three appeared a year or so younger; Fourth-Class boys,
doubtless. Conversation was scant and low-toned. One by one the chairs
emptied and the big hall grew quieter. Threatened with finding himself
the last at his table, Barry hurried through a saucer of canned peaches
and a square of cake and followed the exodus.
He had looked about for Clyde, but had not seen him, but now, following
the curving path toward Dawson, he descried him standing near the
dormitory steps, one of a group of three. Barry dawdled in the hope
that Clyde would detach himself from the others, but he didn’t, and so
the new-comer was presently shaking hands with Ellingham and Stearns.
Ellingham, addressed by the others as “Goof,” was a tall chap of
perhaps seventeen. He didn’t seem vastly impressed by the introduction,
but neither, for that matter, was Barry. Hal Stearns was a rather
ponderous youth, ponderous both as to build and manner, with plain
features, dark hair, and a good deal of color in his full cheeks. As
though fearing that he might be blamed for keeping Barry out of Number
42, he was extremely affable. Barry had made up his mind to like
Stearns, but now the resolution weakened. Ellingham went off presently
and the others climbed the stairs to the room.
If Barry had been inclined to think Clyde a bit casual over his advent,
somewhat unconcerned about his welfare, Clyde’s remarks during the
following ten minutes should have corrected any such assumption. Clyde
said that he and Hal had been discussing Barry; about his getting the
right sort of start and all that.
“There’s a lot in getting off on the right foot,” Clyde continued. “I
learned that myself last year. When a fellow doesn’t come in with his
class he’s sort of handicapped, you see. But I can help you a lot, Hal
and I both, and you’ll probably get on all right. The most important
thing of all is getting in with the right sort at the beginning. If
you pick up with the wrong bunch the other crowd will fight shy of you
and you’ll find it mighty hard to shake loose. Of course I don’t know
many Third-Class fellows, but I’ll snoop around a bit and get the dope
for you. And we’ll see that you meet some of our bunch. Meanwhile,
youngster, you’d better play safe and not get too chummy with any one.”
“Well,” said Barry, doubtfully, “I don’t know, Clyde. I’m sort of used
to picking my own friends, and so far it hasn’t seemed to do much harm.”
“Maybe, but you’ll find things different at a prep school. There are
all sorts here, and a lot of them won’t do you any good if you want
to get on. Take that guy Peaches Jones, who rooms at your place, for
example. Now, he’s a fair example of the sort to keep clear of, Barry.
He’s a regular pill.”
“That’s right,” agreed Hal. “He’s one of the baseball crowd; Tweet
Finch, and the Groves fellows, and that bunch.”
“Well, but I expect to play baseball,” said Barry, perplexed.
“I wouldn’t think of it!” replied Clyde, emphatically. “You won’t meet
the right sort at all. Of course there are two or three, like Jody
Hodson and――and――”
“Pete Johnston,” Hal suggested.
“Y-yes,” agreed Clyde, reluctantly, “although if Pete weren’t
Second-Class president I’d say he was a good deal of a bounder. Anyway,
Barry, it will be a lot better if you cut out baseball. How about
football? Of course you couldn’t make the First this year, but even if
you didn’t, you’d make the right sort of acquaintances.”
“I’m not much good, Clyde,” said Barry. “I tried last fall, but I
didn’t get anywhere. I wouldn’t mind trying for hockey. And I’d like
basket-ball, too. But I guess baseball’s my best bet.”
“Well, anyhow, lay off it until spring,” Clyde urged. “Fall practice
doesn’t amount to much. Maybe by spring you’ll be fixed so it won’t do
you any harm to mix with those rough-necks. Now, about clubs. You’d
better try for Attic. It isn’t exactly exclusive, but most of the right
sort belong. And you like literary stuff and debating, I guess. Then
there’s the Oracle. We’ll work that for you, but you won’t be elected
until February.” Barry tried to look properly grateful and wondered why
he didn’t feel so.
There was more discussion, more planning. Goof Ellingham appeared
presently, accompanied by a fellow who was introduced to Barry as
Greenwalk. Followed much football talk, for Clyde, Hal, and Goof were
all players. After a while Barry took his departure, followed to the
door by Clyde.
“Jake and Goof,” the latter confided in whispers, “are corkers. Glad
you met them. Follow it up, Barry.” Barry nodded, not so much in assent
as because Clyde’s earnestness demanded a reply. “Well, see you in the
morning,” said Clyde, and smote the other on the shoulder with friendly
approval.
It was dark when Barry got outside, and once he was through the gate
the darkness increased, for the village road was lighted by infrequent
arc-lamps and between them stretched long pockets of gloom wherein
crickets cheeped incessantly. There were lights in both the Lyle house
and the Anderson house, opposite. As he drew near, the strains of a
muted violin came from an upstairs window of the latter. It was a
wistful little air that he heard, one that faltered and died away at
a certain intricate run of tiny notes. Barry paused at the gate and
smiled in sympathy as the strains began again and again faded into
silence.
“He’s been at it ten minutes,” said a voice from the gloom of the
porch. “Persevering beggar!”
Barry stared curiously as he neared the speaker. Jones was seated on
something large, black, and formless that gradually resolved itself
into a trunk.
“What――” began Barry.
“Expressman dumped it here. Said he wouldn’t carry it upstairs for
fifty cents. If I’d been here I’d have shown him how mistaken he was,
but it was before I got back, and Mrs. Lyle is easy. So I thought I’d
better wait around and give you a hand.”
“Why, thanks,” said Barry. “But do you think we can do it? It’s awfully
heavy. There’s a lot of books in there.”
“I can carry one end and the middle if you can manage the rest of it,”
answered Jones. “Mr. Benjy wanted to try it, but I wouldn’t let him.”
“Who’s Mr. Benjy?” inquired Barry, dubiously lifting an end of the
steamer trunk as Jones yawningly rose.
“Mr. Lyle. Guess you’d better go first, Locke. Wait until I get the
screen door open. All ready? Let’s go!”
The sound of the struggle brought Mrs. Lyle from the sitting-room.
“Crawford, you’re not trying to get that trunk up by yourself?” she
demanded agitatedly. “I told you you mustn’t! You’ll strain your back
or――or hurt yourself dreadfully, and――”
“It’s all right, Mrs. Lyle. Locke’s here.”
“Oh! Well――” Mrs. Lyle retired again, and a murmur of voices came
through the open door below.
The boys got the trunk up the stairs finally, and then along the
hall and into Barry’s room, setting it down, with vast relief, in the
darkness.
“I’m awfully much obliged,” panted Barry, searching unsuccessfully for
a light-switch beside the door.
“Don’t mention it. If you’re looking for a button, there isn’t any.
Here, let me do it. I know where the thing is. At least, I think I do.
Ah, at last!”
A none too brilliant radiance appeared, accentuating the bareness of
the room. Jones surveyed the scene and shook his head.
“Really, Locke,” he protested, “don’t you know that it’s wretchedly bad
taste to overfurnish like this? I say――where’s your table?”
Barry explained, and Jones chuckled.
“Wonder he didn’t take your bureau, too! By the way, don’t be surprised
if you find garter-snakes and such harmless things wandering around in
here. Toby tries to keep them in bounds, but they will get away from
him at times. Where do you want this thing to live?” He kicked Barry’s
trunk gently.
“What do you think?” asked Barry. “If there were only some place
against the wall! But you see how it is. Every inch taken up.”
“Isn’t that the truth! Well, we might move the upholstered divan under
the front window or edge the buhl cabinet farther to the nor’east. Say,
what _is_ a buhl cabinet?”
“I don’t know,” said Barry. “I never had one before.”
“I see. Well, what do you say?”
“Over there in the corner, I guess.”
“All right. Careful not to scrape the parquetry, now. Gosh! you
careless duffer! you’ve gone and knocked a chip out of the Wedgwood
escritoire!”
“You’re pretty fairly ignorant,” sighed Barry, as they set the trunk on
end. “Wedgwood is pottery stuff. That escritoire is Heppelwhite.”
Jones observed the imaginary object intently.
“So it is!” he agreed. “A remarkably fine specimen, too. Well, I guess
you want to get unpacked, so I’ll leg it.”
Barry’s impulse was toward hospitality, but he recalled Clyde’s
warning and merely thanked Jones once more for his help. Jones
nodded cheerfully and departed and Barry attacked the trunk. Life
at Broadmoor, he reflected as he began unpacking, was going to be
complicated!
His bed was rather hard, but Barry slept like a top until a pleasant
voice called from beyond the door: “Hot water, Mr. Locke!” As it
wasn’t Mrs. Lyle’s voice, he decided, as he yawned himself awake, it
must be the maid Betty’s. Evidently her day off had left her in a very
cheerful state of mind. He crawled out, retrieved the pitcher, and
prepared for his first day of school.
CHAPTER III
BARRY MAKES A PURCHASE
That forenoon, Clyde conscientiously performed his duties as guide,
counselor, and friend, smoothing Barry’s path and sharing with him the
wisdom of one who had already traveled it. Shortly before noon Barry
took his physical examination and went out of the director’s room
in the gymnasium in possession of a gray card filled with lines and
figures and the information that three times a week he was to report
with Class K for physical training. Gymnasium work, it appeared, was
required of every student unless he was engaged in one of the major
sports. Barry regretted his nominal agreement to abstain from the
degrading game of baseball until spring!
He was introduced to at least a dozen fellows that morning, all of
whom, Clyde earnestly assured him, were the right sort. Generally
they were members of Clyde’s class, the Second; once or twice it was
a First-Class fellow who dutifully shook his hand. Toward dinner-time
Barry found himself wishing that Clyde’s friends weren’t so choice.
Being the “right sort” seemed to make a fellow rather self-satisfied
and unlikable!
When dinner was over he hurried off before Clyde could intercept him
and walked to the village to buy a table. He had a vision of something
severely plain and businesslike in oak, something with a good big
drawer and a broad, generous top. He might have found it if Fate hadn’t
drawn his gaze to the window of a shabby little shop on Main Street
in which was a crowded array of second-hand articles. A sign promised
“Antiques,” but what Barry saw scarcely deserved the name. There were
chairs without seats, mirrors without glass, broken teapots, chipped
vases, and a score of other dilapidated objects, but what drew Barry’s
eyes was a desk which, standing in the center of the window, served
as a repository for some ancient crockery, a rusty musket, and an
ivory-handled walking-stick.
It wasn’t a beautiful thing, but it captured Barry. It was of black
walnut, of a style of forty years back, with a bank of drawers down the
right side and a door on the other which, being opened, revealed three
shelves. It was worn and stained, but it looked honest and――well,
“friendly” was the word Barry thought of. Negotiations obtained it for
the reasonable price of six dollars, delivery at 104 Bridge Street
and conveyance up one flight included, and, declining a bargain in a
broken-down swivel chair, Barry turned homeward well pleased.
Stopping for a few moments at Mrs. Lyle’s, he went on to school again.
There was a conference with Mr. Stimson, professor of mathematics,
at two-thirty, and after that Barry was free for the day. He watched
tennis for a while and finally wandered farther afield, to where, on
track and gridiron and diamond, candidates were assembling. The school
was generously provided with space for athletic activities. There were
two gridirons,――one inclosed by the quarter-mile running track,――two
diamonds, and, in winter, three hockey rinks on the surface of the pond
lying in the southwest corner of the field.
The pond was formed by the East Fork River, that small but bustling
stream which skirted the farm that Barry had noticed, crossed the road
under a picturesque stone bridge, and wound through the corner of the
Broadmoor estate. Pond and stream afforded natural hazards on the
nine-hole golf-course which started and ended in home territory but
wandered back and forth along the gentle slope of a near-by hill.
Hills were all about: Pine Knob rising behind the field on the east,
Town Hill nearer the village, Crow Hill to the west, with the road
hugging its base as it turned toward The Falls and Fairmount, and
finally, two miles to the northwest, Mount Sippick, its double peak
frequently veiled by clouds. To-day the slopes showed scarcely a hint
of autumn and the acres of turf were as green as in summer.
A surprising number of football candidates had appeared by the hour
set for the first day’s practice, boys of many sizes, ages, shapes,
and degrees of promise. Barry lingered in one of the two stands for a
while and watched proceedings. He picked out Clyde and Hal Stearns and
the boy they had called Goof; and, because Clyde had indicated him that
morning, the coach, Major Loring. The Major had dropped his title with
the ending of the war, but Broadmoor clung to it proudly. Even in old
flannel trousers and a gray jersey bearing the single broad purple band
of the football squad he was a fine figure of a man.
Barry tired of the entertainment soon and crossed to the nearer
diamond and took a seat in a shaded corner of the covered stand.
Some two dozen fellows were having batting practice and a tall,
loose-jointed youth was pitching to the plate. Of those grouped near
by, each in turn selected his favorite bat and faced the pitcher
until he had delivered two hits and a bunt. Having had his turn, he
relieved one of the players in the field. One of those coming in
from the fielding looked familiar to Barry, but it wasn’t until the
broad-visored cap was momentarily relieved that Barry recognized him.
He was Crawford Jones. Barry was pleased when Jones connected with the
first offering and lined it far into left.
They didn’t appear, any of them, to be very desperate characters,
Barry reflected. On the contrary, they struck him as a particularly
nice-looking lot. He wondered if Clyde and Hal hadn’t been
unnecessarily pessimistic regarding the “baseball bunch.” Certainly
they were getting a lot more fun out of practice than the football
candidates were. There was a deal of talk and laughter, and much
good-natured ragging. Barry found himself wishing he had not virtually
promised Clyde to keep out of the game until spring. He would have
liked nothing better than to be down there throwing the ball around
and swinging at the lanky youth’s offerings.
He was not alone in the stand, for a score or so of other idlers sat
about in groups of two or three, hugged their knees, and uttered
derisive applause, caustic criticism, and absurd advice to their
friends on the field. Barry felt rather lonesome, and it occurred to
him that despite Clyde’s good intentions he wasn’t making friends very
fast. Save for Clyde himself and Hal and Jones and that funny Toby
Nott, he didn’t know a soul. Near the tennis-courts, an hour before,
he had spoken to a fellow to whom Clyde had introduced him earlier in
the day and had received in response only a surprised and chilly glance
followed by a grudging nod. He had determined not to try that again. He
wasn’t used to being snubbed, and he didn’t like it a bit.
About half-past four he went back to the campus, got the pile of books
he had left in Clyde’s room, and returned to Mrs. Lyle’s, unwillingly
acknowledging to himself that it wouldn’t take a whole lot to make him
homesick!
The house looked pleasant enough in the afternoon sunlight, but it
seemed very silent and empty as he made his way upstairs. Even Toby
Nott evidently was out. The sight of the walnut desk, which had
arrived in his absence, cheered Barry up, however. It looked even
better here than it had in the store, although it was undeniably a
shabby old relic at best. He tugged and pushed it across to a position
midway between the side window and the single electric light and got
his hands gray with dust in the operation. It had not, it seemed,
occurred to the dealer to clean it. Barry pulled out the four drawers
on one side and opened the cubbyhole on the other. From the stains
and discolorations he judged that the old desk had seen much service.
From the amount of fine gray dust he also judged that it had lain
idle for some time. He looked about for something to dust it with,
but saw nothing more appropriate than the three towels hanging by
the wash-stand, and so went into the hall and leaned over the stair
railing. It was, he thought, fortunate that he remembered the maid’s
name.
“Betty!” he called. “Oh, Betty!”
After a moment there were faint sounds below, toward the back of the
house, that resolved themselves into light footsteps approaching the
dining-room door. Then a pleasant voice answered:
“Yes, Mr. Locke?”
“Oh! Say, Betty, can you find me a cloth or something to go over this
desk with? It’s covered with dust.”
“I’ll bring one right away,” replied the unseen owner of the voice. The
footsteps retreated and Barry returned to a satisfied contemplation of
his new purchase. He liked the old-fashioned wooden knobs on drawers
and door. They looked sort of interesting, sort of quaint, he decided.
He was still absorbed when he was aroused by Betty’s voice at the
doorway.
“You’d better let me dust it,” she suggested.
Barry turned. Close by stood a girl of about his own age, a slim,
rather pretty girl with dark hair and gray eyes and a smooth tanned
skin, a self-possessed young lady who smiled at him in a friendly way
as he stared back, surprised.
“But――” stammered Barry――“but, look here, you’re not Betty!”
“Why, yes, I am!”
“Well, but――I mean to say――you’re not the maid!”
“The maid?” She seemed to find that most amusing and laughed outright,
and Barry in spite of his confusion noted without distaste that a
dimple appeared in each cheek.
“Yes, I thought――Mrs. Lyle said――” Barry stopped, conscious of
reddening cheeks.
“We haven’t any maid,” was the answer. “I’m Betty Lyle. My! it is
dusty, isn’t it?”
CHAPTER IV
“PUP NIGHT”
Barry, protesting, would have taken the dust-cloth from Betty, but the
latter shook her head and went vigorously and proficiently at the task.
“We’ve got some furniture polish somewhere,” she said, “and to-morrow
I’ll put some on. It’s a real nice desk. Did you have it sent from your
home?”
“Oh, no; I bought it in the village, from an old chap with a yellow
beard. He has what he calls an antique shop.”
“Mr. Hannabury,” said Betty, nodding. “Mother has bought some things
from him.” Barry unconsciously glanced at the bureau and Betty,
observing, smiled and shook her head. “No, that didn’t come from
the antique store. That was left here three or four years ago by a
boy who had the back room. It isn’t very good, I know,” she added
apologetically. And then, frankly: “Lots of our things aren’t, Mr.
Locke.”
“It’s plenty good enough,” he declared stoutly. “And my name’s Barry.”
She nodded.
“And you know mine already. If there’s anything you want, you must let
me know. Of course,” she laughed, “we may not have it, but, then again,
we may. I’m sorry you had to buy a table. You shouldn’t have let Toby
do that.”
“Well, he certainly needed it,” said Barry, with a grin. “What does he
do with all those things in there, anyway?”
“Just has them. Toby’s a collector. Collectors are like that, you know.
They just――just _collect_!”
“But he collects such messy things,” Barry protested. “Insects and――and
frogs――”
“Oh, yes, and turtles and even snakes. But he seems to have a lovely
time doing it, and so we try not to mind. And he’s a nice boy, too.”
Betty smiled again, nodded and vanished from the doorway.
Barry spent the next half-hour arranging his desk and examining his new
books, stiff-backed and pleasantly odorous of printer’s ink. Finally,
consulting his schedule of recitations, he selected one of the volumes
and seated himself in his one easy-chair, by the side window. But he
didn’t get much studying done just then, for the window afforded a
view of the slowly curving road and a corner of the tree-shaded campus,
and of Brazer’s farm with its sentinel elms casting long shadows about
the simple, comfortable buildings. He could see the river, too, here
and there, a sunlit blue ribbon skirting the farmer’s meadow-land,
twisting about the foot of Crow Hill and at last disappearing under the
stone bridge. All this held more attraction than the book.
Occasionally voices from the gridiron reached him, and once, beyond the
tree-tops, a football floated for a moment against the sky. Every one,
he reflected with a sigh, seemed to be having a pretty good time――every
one save John Barry Locke.
It was close to six when his gaze fell on two figures just turning from
the school gate. One was Crawford Jones. They were talking earnestly,
companionably, and Barry sighed again. Just short of the Lyle lot the
two parted, the stranger crossing toward the opposite house. Barry
hoped that Jones would accept the invitation of the half-opened door
and look in. But Jones went past without pausing. Barry closed his book
and prepared for supper.
When he went downstairs, a smallish man was reading a paper, at one
end of the porch. He lowered his head and peered at Barry over the
tops of his glasses. Then he said, “Hm!” rather nervously and added,
“Good evening.” He seemed friendly and in his present desire for
companionship Barry welcomed the opportunity for speech. He returned
the greeting and walked along the porch.
“I suppose you’re Mr. Lyle, sir,” he continued, smiling and holding out
his hand.
“Yes, yes,” was the almost eager response. “Very glad to know you, my
boy! Hm! Delighted to――er――welcome you to our humble abode. Won’t you
sit down?”
He was standing, his paper clutched in one hand, his eyes peering
near-sightedly through his glasses, and, having returned Barry’s
clasp, he continued to smile. Just why he should have awakened
Barry’s sympathy the latter couldn’t have told, but he did. Perhaps
it was because, in spite of his attempt to appear at ease, to attain
the dignity of the host, he seemed to offer the constant apology
of the man who realizes his inconsequence. He looked to be about
forty-two or forty-three years of age, was short of stature, thin, and
perceptibly stoop-shouldered, although in moments of brief assurance he
straightened himself to military erectness. Barry understood why he
was known as Mr. Benjy. The name suited him perfectly.
“Thanks,” Barry answered, “but I’m on my way to supper. I just wanted
to get acquainted, sir.” He smiled winningly and Mr. Benjy looked
touchingly gratified. “My name is Barry Locke, sir.”
“Yes, yes, I know. That is, Elizabeth――I should say my wife――has spoken
of you. You are occupying――er――the southwest chamber. Very glad indeed
to have you with us, Mister――er――”
“Just ‘Barry,’ sir. Thank you.” Barry nodded and went his way. Mr.
Benjy watched him over the edge of his paper until he had disappeared.
“Fine boy,” he murmured. “Davy was rather like him when he―― Hm!” Mr.
Benjy frowned, sighed, and rustled the paper back into position a few
inches from his glasses.
Barry found himself surprisingly hungry for his supper and did
excellently by it. The boy on his right, overcoming his shyness,
ventured a remark, half-way through the repast, and for the rest of the
time they conversed quite busily. Barry had been slightly curious about
this boy, whose name, it now appeared, was Fessenden. He was fourteen,
Barry guessed, and in the Fourth Class. He had dark hair that refused
to yield to the brush, heavy brows and long lashes over somewhat dreamy
brown eyes, and pale cheeks that reddened easily. A shy, sensitive boy,
and attractive in a way, Barry concluded. He evidently was finding
life at Broadmoor School none too joyous, although he didn’t say so
outright. Barry surmised that he, too, was feeling lonely and perhaps
homesick, and he would have been glad to lend companionship to the
younger lad had he not agreed to look up Clyde. As it was, they parted
outside Bates, Fessenden, ere he turned toward the library entrance,
nodding shy gratitude for the other’s friendliness.
There was an atmosphere of unrest about the campus that evening,
and a tendency to loiter about the oval and before the steps of the
buildings. Barry wondered for a moment what was in the air, but forgot
his curiosity in the discovery that Number 42 was empty. His first
impulse was to take advantage of the fact and so avoid an evening which
offered scant attraction for him, but second thoughts held him to his
promise and he switched on the lights, picked up a magazine, and set
himself to await Clyde’s return.
He found a story absorbing enough to hold his close attention for
nearly an hour. Then, as Clyde was still absent, he decided that he was
at liberty to leave, and turned out the lights and sought the stairway.
Had he been better acquainted with Dawson Hall under normal conditions
he would have noticed an unusual quiet. Here and there, from some open
door, the sound of voices reached the corridor, but for the most part
the rooms were dark. On the steps a few fellows lingered as though
waiting for something to happen, but these things made no impression on
Barry, and he took the path past the end of Croft and went on briskly
down the drive, toward home. He had just emerged into the road when,
in the increasing gloom, a flood of white light beat into his face,
forcing a startled gasp from him as he recoiled.
“What’s your class?” demanded a voice. Barry, shielding his eyes from
the rays of the pocket torch, saw four figures, possibly more, in the
group about him. Puzzled, slightly resentful of the start they had
given him, Barry spoke sharply:
“What do you want to know for?”
“He’s a ‘pup’!” declared one of the dim forms, and, “Sure he is!”
exclaimed a second. A hand laid itself ungently on Barry’s shoulder.
He stepped back, wrenching loose.
“What’s the idea?” he demanded.
The light suddenly went out and the faces of the others took shape.
Barry saw one of the fellows move toward the edge of the sidewalk, and
coincidently memory came to his aid. The preceding winter Clyde had
laughingly told him of “Pup Night” at school. Barry had forgotten,
but it came back to him now that in Broadmoor parlance a Fourth-Class
fellow was a “pup” and that the second evening of the term was “Pup
Night,” when the Third Classmen conducted certain ceremonies at the
pond, aided――somewhat unenthusiastically――by as many of the Fourth
Class as could be rounded up. His muscles relaxed and he smiled as he
said:
“I’m Third Class, fellows. Awfully sorry!”
“What’s your name?” asked a large boy, evidently in command of the
detail, with suspicion.
“Locke.”
“That’s right, Rusty,” said another. “He’s in a couple of my classes. I
remember him.”
“Well, he’s an awfully fresh guy,” growled Rusty. Then, to Barry: “Seen
any pups around?”
“No, I haven’t.”
“Well, we’re looking for one who lives down the road here. They said at
the house he hadn’t come back, but maybe they were kidding us. Where do
you stay?”
“Mrs. Lyle’s,” answered Barry. “There aren’t any Fourth-Class fellows
there.”
“No, but there’s a guy across the street,” said Rusty, “and we want
him. Well――” He paused indecisively.
“I’ll tell him if I see him,” said Barry, obligingly, and went on. Some
one chuckled, but Rusty took the jest poorly.
“You do,” he called hoarsely but in low tones, “and I’ll hand you a
wallop, Fresh!”
Barry strove to recall Rusty. Something about him, perhaps his voice,
perhaps his dimly seen face, was familiar. Probably he had encountered
him at one of the conferences that morning. In any case, he decided,
he didn’t like him. The decision brought him to his gate, and he was
groping for the latch when a shout from behind him along the road
made him pause. There were voices then, a second shout, and the sound
of running feet. Barry peered back into the darkness. Toward him,
across the street, sped the quarry, the pursuers strung out behind but
gaining, as yet only deeper shadows in the gloom but taking form as
they approached the radius of light from the arc-lamp just beyond the
houses. The chase ended suddenly. The pursued stumbled, a dozen yards
from the Anderson gate, and fell, and the hunters were on him! Barry’s
smile faded, for a voice of pure terror came to him.
“Oh, please! _Please!_” wailed the captive. “Let me go! Let me _go_!”
Barry didn’t like the sound of that. The boy, whoever he was, was badly
frightened, almost hysterical. Barry crossed the road quickly. There
were five forms in the group moving slowly back into the darkness. They
had the captive securely enough, but he was struggling desperately,
panting convulsively, too panicky now to control his voice.
“Oh, shut up,” growled Rusty. “We aren’t going to hurt you, you baby!”
Their own scuffling footsteps kept the captors from hearing Barry’s
approach, and the sudden sound of his voice brought an instant halt.
“Hold on a minute,” said Barry. “This chap’s too scared. I wouldn’t go
any further with this business, fellows.”
“You wouldn’t?” demanded Rusty, sarcastically. “Well, who’s asking you
to? You go roll your hoop, young feller.”
The boy had quieted, although Barry could still hear his stifled sobs.
Barry kept his temper as he answered:
“Well, I’m Third, too, you know, and I’m not trying to spoil your fun,
but you ought to be able to see for yourselves――”
“Hire a hall!” Rusty reached forward and gave Barry a shove that sent
him staggering into another of the group. “Come on, fellows! ‘Drown the
pup’!”
Barry recovered himself and slipped past the youth whose toes he had,
doubtless, damaged. The move brought his back to the fence and with
a sudden yank he pulled the captive to his side and quickly stepped
in front of him. He had recognized the boy now: he was Fessenden, his
neighbor at table. The coup left Rusty momentarily too astonished and
outraged for speech, and in that instant Barry, half turning his head,
whispered, “Run when you see the chance!” Whether Fessenden heard or,
hearing, understood, Barry couldn’t know. Rusty had pushed a companion
roughly aside and from a few inches away was glaring at the meddler.
Barry resolutely kept his hands at his sides. He was still smiling,
although perhaps the darkness concealed the fact.
“You get out of here!” roared Rusty. “Go on! Get!” He seized Barry’s
coat at a shoulder and tried to heave him aside. The cloth strained,
but Barry didn’t heave. Instead, one of his own hands went swiftly up
and caught Rusty’s wrist, a foot shot forward, and then he did heave,
while Rusty, pulled forward and tripping over Barry’s extended leg,
swung to one side and crashed into the fence. And at the instant Barry
shouted, “_Run!_”
But Fessenden was incapable of running, and only cowered beside him,
gasping and futile.
“Grab him!” raged Rusty as he found his balance and, crouching, faced
Barry again. But he was wary, now. He liked a quarrel, but he hated
punishment, and something in the attitude of the straight figure
confronting him counseled caution. Barry, who had no love for fighting
but could nevertheless fight when it was necessary, moved a step along
the fence to free himself of Fessenden, now once more securely guarded.
He had no uneasiness as to the others. They’d keep out of it. It would
be just he and the big chap they called Rusty.
The latter was silent now, and menacing. Barry watched and waited.
Then his opponent rushed, closed. Barry fell back half a pace, threw
his head to the right, and took a crashing blow on his elbow. Then he
swung his right fist upward and felt the swift pain of the impact dart
along his arm. There was a startled “_Ugh!_” from Rusty as he staggered
away, and then:
“Pretty work, old son,” applauded a voice, and a new actor in the drama
stepped to Barry’s side, draped a hastily discarded coat over the
fence, and faced the group.
“Let’s make it a foursome,” said Crawford Jones, pleasantly. “Who else
wants to play?”
CHAPTER V
FESSENDEN FIDDLES
But it appeared that Jones had spoiled the party. Silence fell. Even
Fessenden grew quiet. Then some one laughed awkwardly and the spell was
broken.
“Well,” said Jones, in mild astonishment, “what’s the difficulty? Let’s
go. Any one will do; or any two.”
“Where’s your license to butt in?” growled Rusty, nursing his jaw
tenderly.
“Why, hello! Is that you, Waterman? That was a nice one you stopped
just now. They ought to have you on the nine, Rusty! Well, if the
game’s over, Locke, let’s wander. Who’s this chap?”
“He’s a pup,” answered Rusty, aggrievedly. “We were lugging him down
to the pond when this fresh guy here came up and shot off his mouth.
Said we mustn’t. I told him to beat it and then he wanted to fight.
You’d think we were doing something we oughtn’t! Isn’t this Pup Night,
Peaches?”
“As ever was!” agreed Jones, heartily. “And if you fellows expect to
see any of the fun, you’d better get a move on. It’s long after eight.”
“Well, we’re going to take this brat with us,” said Rusty. But his tone
lacked conviction. Jones shook his head.
“Not to-night,” he said gently. “Fade away, Rusty.”
“You’ve got a lot of gall,” began Rusty, blusteringly.
“I’ll say he has,” agreed one of the others. “This isn’t any of your
business, Jones.”
“Is that,” Jones inquired amiably, “your considered opinion?”
“Yes, it is, if you want to know.” Assurance, however, decreased
perceptibly toward the end of the statement.
“Well,” said Jones, “you look――or you would look if I could see
you――like a fellow ready to back his opinions. How about it?”
“Oh, dry up!” The retort was delivered in retreat, so to say, for
the speaker was already moving cautiously in a direction which could
never bring him any nearer Jones than he had been, even if persisted
in indefinitely. Jones allowed the argument to close. So did all the
others. Rusty laughed with a creditable simulation of unconcern and
moved too.
“If you’re going to make a――a serious affair of it――” he began
sarcastically.
“That’s it,” said Jones. “International complications, World Court
and all that, Rusty. Good night.” Jones re-donned his coat. The party
was at an end, disrupted, broken in halves. One half went schoolward,
discussing the affair, in dissatisfied mutters; the other set off
toward the Andersons’ house. Nearing the light, Jones turned a puzzled
regard on Fessenden.
“Well, son, what was your trouble? Think they were going to murder you?”
Fessenden shook his head, gulped, but made no answer.
“What do they do to them at the pond?” asked Barry.
“Make them swim across, if they can swim. A few get chucked in. There
are always three or four sporting enough to say ‘yes’ to that. Faculty
won’t stand for it unless the pups are willing. Those who can’t swim
get off; or maybe the others give them a bath with a pail. It’s only
fun――rather silly fun, I guess. I suppose you can’t swim, son.”
They were at the gate and Fessenden was fumbling for the latch. At
Jones’s question his head went down and a sob shook him. Jones stared
perplexedly at Barry and the latter put a hand on Fessenden’s shoulder
and asked, “What’s the matter?”
“I――I’m ashamed,” gulped the boy.
“Oh, that’s it! Well, really, you know, it becomes you,” said Jones,
gently, “but I wouldn’t trouble about it any more.”
“I was in the library after supper,” began Fessenden, haltingly,
“and――and two boys were talking across the table; whispering.
They――they said a boy was drowned last year by――by the Third-Class
fellows, and――”
“Just trying to scare you, I guess,” said Jones. “Nothing in it, son.”
“Then I was coming home and I saw a light and hid and those fellows
were talking to you――” he indicated Barry――“and I heard what they said
and was frightened. I――I can’t swim! After you went along I tried to
get by on the other side of the road. I thought if I could catch up
with you―― But they saw me and I ran and they chased me. They were
shouting, ‘Drown the pup’! Then I fell and they got me.” Fessenden
ended with a final gulp and an appealing and shamefaced smile.
Jones chuckled.
“And you thought you were a goner, eh? Never mind, young―― What’s your
name, anyway?”
“Fessenden.”
“And you room here? I’ll bet you’re the fellow who plays the fiddle!”
The other nodded.
“I’m sorry if I’ve annoyed you,” he said in eager apology.
“Not a bit, son, but I do wish you’d learn to wangle that tiddly-widdly
bit you’ve been struggling with for two days!”
Fessenden laughed tremulously.
“I have,” he said. “I can play it straight through now.”
“Praises be!” ejaculated Jones. “Well, better run along and get your
beauty sleep. Just remember this, though, young Fessenden. Never cry
till you’re hurt, and not then if you can help it. And never, never let
yourself get frightened. Whatever it is that gets your goat, son, go
straight up to it and poke it in the jaw. Just like Locke did! And that
was a neat swing, I’ll say.”
“I――I’ll try,” said Fessenden, gratefully. “And thanks for making
them――for everything――”
“That’s all right. If you feel under obligations to this gentleman and
me, just go up and play the tiddly-widdly thing through for us. I’d
like to know what happens after the peety-weety-weety part!”
“Queer bird,” commented Jones, as he and Barry crossed the road.
“High-strung,” said Barry. “He’s at my table and we were talking at
supper. I think he’s been sort of homesick.”
“I’d think he might be, staying in that room and playing his fiddle
all day. I can get homesick just listening to one of the things――some
kind of sick, anyway! Let’s sit here a minute and see if he fiddles for
us.” He seated himself on the porch and Barry dropped down beside him.
Across the road a front window in the opposite house became an oblong
of light.
“Where’d you learn to fight like that?” asked Jones.
“At home. There’s a chap who has a gymnasium and gives lessons in
boxing and wrestling. Clyde Allen and I got it into our heads a couple
of years ago that we’d like to learn and we went to him most of one
year. Some of the other fellows in high school went, too, and we used
to have boxing bouts at Clyde’s house, up in the billiard-room on
the third floor, until the plaster began to give way in Mrs. Allen’s
bedroom.”
“You and Allen are pretty chummy, then,” said Jones.
“Yes. Well, I don’t know, either. We’ve known each other a long while
and we live only three houses apart. Clyde was a year ahead of me at
school, though, and for the last two years we haven’t been quite so
thick. And then, last fall, he came here, and last summer, at Orchard
Bluff, he took up with an older crowd. But of course we’re pretty good
friends.”
“I see. Listen!”
Through the darkness, from the lighted window across the way, came the
strains of the “tiddly-widdly” air, played very softly. As the player
neared the dangerous stage Jones turned to Barry with a little smile
and held up a finger. But now the bow didn’t falter. It went swiftly
through a maze of tiny notes, unerringly, triumphantly, paused over a
thin, silvery tone, and descended to the lower notes for a repetition
of the opening movement and was still.
“That’s fiddling, young Fessenden!” murmured Jones. He clapped his
hands softly and Barry joined him. A form darkened the lighted window,
stood there a moment as though peering across, and then vanished.
“That was his amende,” said Jones, gravely. “And his thanks. A decent
kid, I guess, but brought up wrong. I’ll bet he couldn’t toss a ball
from first base to second! Or boot a football, or――or clean a fish,
always supposing he could catch one. That’s no way to bring a fellow
up, Locke. And if he is that sort, the last place to send him to is a
boarding-school. There are too many rough-necks here who don’t know
a――an andante from a――you say it, Locke.”
“Anduncle,” said Barry, gravely.
“Huh? Well, anyway, you get the idea. That kid’s in for a lot of hard
knocks in the next few months, and he won’t know how to take them
because about all he knows of life is keeping his feet dry and his
fiddle tuned! Let’s go up.”
“Come in and see my antique,” said Barry, when they had climbed the
stairs. “That is, if you have the time.”
“I’ll take time,” Jones replied, and, when the light was on: “Well! a
gen-oo-ine Chippendale! Or is it Sèvres?”
“Real Ming,” said Barry.
“Ming, eh? One of our best little designers.” Jones took the arm-chair
and surveyed the desk approvingly. “I knew him well. Also his uncle,
Grand Rapids. Say, Locke, where’d you find that relic? Is there a
public dump around somewhere?”
“I like your nerve!” exclaimed Barry, indignantly. “What’s the matter
with it?――except that it’s a bit more modern than the rest of the
stuff.”
“Maybe that’s it,” said the other, grinning. “I hope you’ve got it
clamped to the floor so Toby won’t pinch it! Joking aside, though, it’s
not half bad. Has lots of room, too. I suppose you didn’t pay anything
for having it delivered.”
“I didn’t, as a matter of fact, but what of it? Go on and spring it.”
“Nothing of it. Only, if any one gave me a nice desk like that I’d
expect him to deliver it.”
“You’re insulting. I paid six dollars for that desk, Jones, and I’ll
bet you wish you owned it.”
“I’ll bet I wish I were the fellow who got the six dollars! Well,
getting to love your little home, are you? You look quite fixed up.
Photographs and everything! Mind if I look?”
“Help yourself. Just the family, mostly.”
“This must be your father. Looks rather like you. And this is Allen,
isn’t it? Makes him look quite noble.” Jones completed the inspection
of the photographs and lounged back to his chair. Then, looking over
at Barry with a smile, he said, “I suppose he warned you against me,
Locke.”
“Warned me?” Barry repeated, confused. “What makes you think that?”
Jones chuckled.
“Oh, I just knew he would! He doesn’t approve of me, doesn’t like me.
And I don’t like him. You mustn’t mind that, because I dislike lots
of persons and things――like Napoleon and Pansy Chester and vanilla
ice-cream――that other folks admire hugely. So my taste isn’t any
criterion.”
“I guessed that you didn’t,” answered Barry. “Like Clyde, I mean. Would
you mind telling me why?”
“Not a bit, if I knew. But I don’t. Perhaps it’s more the gang he
travels with than he. Oh, I could state objections to your friend, just
as he could to me, but they wouldn’t be enough to explain it. We’ve
never spoken to each other more than a couple of dozen times, probably;
and then we just growled.”
“Well,” said Barry, after a moment, “of course Clyde isn’t perfect. No
one is――”
“Thanks be!” said Jones, fervently.
“But I’ve known him a good while, and so――” Barry broke off and his
smile deepened. “You know it would be a lot nicer if you two fellows
didn’t growl at each other, because I like Clyde and I――” He stopped
abruptly this time, looking uncomfortably embarrassed.
Jones grinned.
“And you don’t think I’m so bad. Go ahead and say it. Never mind my
blushes.”
“I don’t believe you could blush!” laughed Barry. “Anyway, I give you
fair warning that I’m going to get you and Clyde better acquainted,
so――”
“I know,” sighed the other. “You’re going to have a lingering illness
and die with an angelic smile on your face, while Allen and I clasp
hands across your bed.”
“I am not!” denied Barry, vigorously. “I don’t intend to have even a
toothache on your account. Neither of you is worth it. But I don’t
intend, either, to have a couple of decent chaps whom I――like――act so
silly. There’s no sense in it.”
“Noble sentiments, me Lud! They does you credik. Just the same and
notwithstanding――” and Jones yawned, stretched, and pulled himself out
of the chair――“before you have Allen and me shaking hands, one of two
things has got to happen: either he must change a lot or I must. I bid
you good night.”
CHAPTER VI
“PEACHES”
Barry settled down to school routine and in the course of a few days
made several discoveries. One was that he would have to study a
good deal harder than he had studied the previous year, for all the
instructors whose classes he graced were believers in labor――for the
students. Still, he didn’t have Doctor Clode this year, and that was
something to be thankful for if he was to credit reports. The doctor,
whose first name was Julius and was popularly known as “Julie,”
besides attending to the duties of being principal, taught first- and
second-year Latin. There were many who believed that he would have been
even a greater success as a slave-driver. In spite of that, however, he
was popular.
Another discovery was that gymnasium work under Mr. Peterson was a
bore. Jones pointed out to him that to escape it he had only to sign
up for one of the major sports. That called for a confession, since,
naturally, Jones suggested baseball. Barry explained rather awkwardly
that he had decided, at Clyde’s suggestion, not to try for baseball
until spring. Jones looked as though he wanted to ask a question, but
he didn’t.
“Well, that’s all right,” he said. “Fact is, we aren’t crazy about new
candidates in the fall, for the Major has his hands full of football
and we have to get along without a coach. Of course in your case, since
you’ve played some already, Jody wouldn’t mind taking you on. Well,
what about football? Ever tried it?”
Barry nodded.
“Yes, but I didn’t seem to get the hang of it, or something. At high
school we had three teams, and I was on them all, last fall or the fall
before that, and never managed to stick. I’m rather light-weight, I
guess. Besides, I never got awfully interested in playing. Baseball’s
my stuff, although I don’t pretend to be much at that, either.”
“Your modesty becomes you,” said Jones, gravely. “Well, how about track
work? Ever run or hurdled or anything?”
“No, I haven’t. I thought some about trying the sprints last fall, but
our trainer didn’t give me any encouragement. He told me to come around
in the spring, but then I was playing baseball on the junior team. I
guess I’ll just have to wait for hockey or basket-ball to start.”
The friendship with Jones progressed apace, to Clyde’s frequently
expressed disgust. But Clyde had to confess that it would be extremely
difficult to reside in the same house with a chap and have nothing to
do with him.
“Just the same, though,” he insisted, “if you let Jones get you in with
his gang, you’ll be ditched. You show up this evening, Barry, and we’ll
call on a couple of corking guys over in Meddill. One of ’em’s in your
class, too.”
So Barry went, but nothing came of that call. Barry was content that
nothing should. By the end of the week Clyde’s efforts in Barry’s
behalf dwindled. He said he couldn’t see why the other didn’t follow up
some of the many introductions. Hal Stearns nodded vigorous assent. He
appeared even more disgruntled than Clyde. Barry offered every reason
save the right one, which was that none of the fellows to whom he had
been introduced by Clyde appealed to him in the slightest degree. Hal
as good as signified his intention of washing his hands of the business
of getting Barry “started right,” and Barry was secretly very much
pleased.
Barry’s day began at seven o’clock, at which hour Betty Lyle set a
chipped pitcher of hot water outside his door and roused him from
slumber. At approximately seven-twenty-five he set forth, usually with
Jones, sometimes with Jones and Toby Nott, by a short cut to Croft Hall
and chapel. Sometimes, too, the roomers in the house opposite joined
them. These were Fessenden and Millington. Millington, known as ‘Mill,’
was a Second-Class boy and a member of the baseball squad. Barry liked
him from the first. Fessenden, whose first name was Alonzo, was dubbed
“Zo” by Jones. Which was quite all right with Fessenden, since anything
that Crawford Jones did was perfect in his eyes. After a few days Jones
himself wasn’t “Jones” to Barry; nor was he “Crawford.” He became
“Peaches,” a nickname that had been his since some mad wag had, years
before, thought of the association of that word with Crawford.
Chapel lasted fifteen minutes and breakfast began at eight o’clock.
The first recitation was at nine, the last at three. Dinner was at
twelve-thirty, supper at six. Such was the routine of every week-day,
although, as Barry’s recitation-hours varied, all days were not just
alike for him. His afternoons were spent at tennis or golf when he
could find an opponent, or in looking on at baseball or football.
Save on Saturday and Sunday afternoons Peaches was busy on the diamond
and Barry couldn’t count on him for companionship. On Saturdays there
was no practice for the baseball candidates, and on those afternoons
Peaches was at liberty to follow the fortunes of the Broadmoor
eleven. On the second Saturday after the beginning of the term Barry
accompanied him.
The game, the first of the schedule, was not an important one, but
it offered an opportunity to compare the home team with the previous
year’s defeated eleven and there was a generous attendance of students
and townsfolk. Peaches had tried to induce Toby Nott to go along with
them, but Toby, appearing at his door with an agitated beetle between
his fingers, had shown no enthusiasm. He stared quite blankly through
his spectacles while Peaches repeated the invitation. Then, “You mean
see a football game?” he asked, with a puzzled air.
“You’re certainly quick,” acknowledged Peaches. “I tell you only twice
and you grasp it immediately.”
Toby blinked and grinned uncertainly.
“Well, but――what for?” he asked.
Peaches looked at Barry hopelessly.
“It’s no use,” he muttered. “Come on.”
With evident relief Toby started to withdraw, but then, fearing he had
failed to show proper interest in the event, he put his head out again
and called after them:
“Say, Jones, who’s playing?”
“Broadmoor School,” answered Peaches, from the foot of the stairs.
“Oh,” said Toby. He seemed quite satisfied as he closed his door again.
Barry felt slightly guilty as he approached the stand. Clyde was
certain to see him, and he wouldn’t be pleased to find him with Peaches
Jones. And Clyde did see him and waved to him from the bench. It was
a restrained greeting, however. Barry was surprised at the number of
fellows who spoke to his companion. Peaches had the same greeting
for all, a slight smile and a backward tilt of his head. Barry felt
a trifle apologetic on his companion’s behalf. It seemed to him that
Peaches was――well, not exactly impolite but certainly unresponsive.
Exactly four fellows nodded to Barry during his climb and it was with
difficulty that he restrained himself from stopping to shake hands
in gratitude! There was one acquaintance who didn’t speak. He was a
large youth with rather staring dark eyes. Barry recognized him as his
opponent of a week or so earlier and might have nodded had he received
any encouragement. But Waterman’s regard was broodingly unfriendly.
Broadmoor’s rival that day was Shefford High School, and no one
expected either a very close or a very exciting game. Consequently no
one was disappointed when the home team took command at the start and
held the enemy in subjection throughout the four ten-minute periods.
Peaches, who, in spite of being a devotee of baseball was also an
enthusiastic football fan, supplied Barry with the names of the
various purple-and-gray clad players, adding brief but illuminating
descriptions:
“The tall chap with the Napoleonic countenance is Gordon Buckley. Buck
is captain. He’s a bright lad and the fellows think a lot of him. The
guy playing next to him, this way, is Ellingham――a sturdy brute who
goes by the name of Goof; don’t ask me why. Pete Zosker is the center.
Pete says his folks are French, but personally I believe him to be a
Dalmatian.”
“What’s a Dalmatian?” asked Barry.
“I haven’t the least idea. Next to Zosker is Sinclair at right guard.
He wasn’t much last year. Johnny Zinn is the quarter-back, and a
corker. Right here let me call your attention to the fact that this is
probably the only football team having two Z’s in its line-up; Zosker
and Zinn. If the Major could find nine more Z’s he’d have a real team!”
“Who’s the slight fellow playing half?” asked Barry.
“Demille. The other’s Tip Cartright, and the full-back is Ira Haviland.
Ira is no relation to the china of that name, for he is absolutely
non-breakable. Hoskins made that discovery last year. There’s another
touchdown. That makes us eighteen――no, nineteen. Now, if Tip gets this
goal――”
Tip did, and the half ended soon after. During the intermission a
nice-looking fellow of perhaps eighteen lowered himself over the back
of the seat beyond Jones and joined them. Jones introduced him as
Bassett, but during subsequent conversation addressed him as “B. B.” He
shook hands with Barry as though he liked it, which was something Barry
had not been used to of late and which left him almost speechless.
When Bassett had departed, with the reappearance of the teams, Jones
explained him.
“Billy Bassett,” he said; “a white man. He’s President of First. Came
in on a scholarship three years ago and has been an honor man every
year since. They say his father is a butcher. If he is, I’ll bet he
sells good meat!”
“There aren’t many fellows like him here, are there?” Barry inquired.
“I mean――well, poor fellows.” Then he regretted the question, since he
had gathered in one way or another that Jones himself came under that
category; he recalled that back home many folks who lacked money seemed
ashamed of the fact and pretended to be better off than they were. But
Peaches didn’t seem to mind the remark.
“Not so many,” he answered. “Some, though. Broadmoor’s rather more
expensive than a lot of other schools, you see; still, we do have a
number of chaps whose folks aren’t wealthy. And some of them hate to
have it known!”
“I don’t see why,” said Barry. “Just because your folks happen to have
money――I mean there’s no reason why you should take credit for it, is
there?”
“No, but some fellows do. We had a fellow here last year, Shafter,
whose father’s a United States Senator. Sometimes, to hear Mat, you’d
think he had simply made his dad! Same way with fellows whose fathers
have wads. They give you the idea that it’s all their doing.”
Barry laughed.
“It’s funny, but it’s so, I guess. Clyde’s sort of like that. He seems
to take a lot of credit for his father’s success.”
“His father has money, then?” asked Peaches.
“Gee, yes! Well, anyway, he’s pretty wealthy for our part of the world.
He’s President of the Empire State Brass Company, you know.”
“Think of that!” said Peaches, evidently much impressed.
Fearing he had shown a lack of tact, Barry added hastily:
“Of course money isn’t everything. I mean, it isn’t really important.
Some of the chaps at home, fellows I liked awfully, are what you might
call poor. They don’t seem to mind it, either.”
“Quite properly,” approved Peaches. “As you say, money’s of small
consequence. Personally, I prefer to have things charged.”
Barry looked at the other doubtfully. It sounded like a joke, but
Peaches was absolutely grave as he watched the home team pile through
the opponent’s right for a long gain. Barry reflected that perhaps he
had been talking too much. He was apt to forget that Peaches was a
full year older and a class ahead of him and might not always find his
conversation absorbing. When he did remember those facts he wondered
at the intimacy between them. Peaches was so queer about friends! He
seemed to know almost every one and to be very popular, yet he didn’t
go with any one. Walter Millington appeared to be the nearest approach
to a pal, barring Barry himself, and even Mill wasn’t really chummy.
The reflection that, after all, perhaps Clyde was right about Peaches,
occurred to him. Maybe there was some fault that kept other fellows
away. Yet, the others didn’t act as if they were avoiding Peaches.
No, it seemed the other way about! Barry gave it up and followed his
companion’s example in watching the game. Toward the last of the third
period the Major began using substitutes liberally, and both Clyde and
Hal Stearns went in, Clyde at right half and Hal at left guard. Barry
thought Clyde played very well and he expressed the opinion to Peaches.
“Allen? Not bad. Want any more of this? If not, let’s stretch our legs
and mosey along to the Palace for a couple of chocolate-milks.”
There was still another period, but Barry decided for Peaches’ society
and a milk-shake at the Palace Drug Store. The half-hearted cheering
diminished in volume as they made their way to the road. As they
reached it a small youth carrying a violin-case came out of a gate
ahead and turned northward.
“Isn’t that the child virtuoso?” asked Peaches.
Barry assented.
“He’s taking lessons from Mr. Banks, he told me yesterday. Mr. Banks
teaches music at the high school.”
Peaches hailed and Zo Fessenden waited for them. As usual, he was
embarrassed for the first few minutes, and Peaches’ good-natured fun
brought only shy smiles. Finally Peaches said:
“Zo, I’m going to ask you something, and I want a plain answer from man
to man.” He nodded toward the violin. “Do you like doing that or was it
wished on you?”
“Both, I guess,” Zo replied. “I didn’t like it at first, but my mother
wanted me to learn, and after a while I liked it better. Now I like it
a whole lot.”
“Spoken like a hero,” said Peaches. “My mind is at rest. Shall you make
a business――no, profession――of it? Play before the crowned heads of
Europe and all that?”
“Maybe by the time I can really play there won’t be any crowned heads
left,” answered Zo. “But I think I shall try to make it my――my
lifework.”
Peaches exchanged a swift glance of amusement with Barry.
“Well, I guess you’re lucky to find your lifework so early, Zo,” he
said gravely. “Some fellows don’t find it until they’re considerably
older. And some, it seems, never do find it. If you will leave your
fiddle and come back, we’ll take you to the Palace and quaff a beaker
to your future success.”
So Zo bounded into the Andersons’ and reappeared breathlessly in
something less than forty-five seconds, and the three proceeded along
the sunlit road in pursuit of milk-shakes.
CHAPTER VII
DRAFTED
Barry saw Clyde daily. Clyde seemed to expect it and Barry was anxious
that their friendship shouldn’t wane. That it was in danger of waning
was evident, not through the desire of either but because they belonged
to different classes and so their paths lay apart. Clyde’s intimates
had been chosen from those of secured position. Some had won standing
in athletics, usually football: others merely on the score of family
wealth or prominence. They didn’t constitute a large proportion of the
student body, but they were always much in evidence and managed to
exert a good deal of influence in school affairs.
Clyde’s efforts to include Barry in his circle were doomed to failure
from the first. Barry had arrived unheralded, with none to vouch
for him save Clyde; and Clyde’s own position among the “right sort”
was none too secure as yet. Perhaps had Barry made earnest efforts
to please he might, after a proper novitiate, have been accepted.
But Barry didn’t, and he realized that Clyde’s friends resented his
presence. Clyde sought to make Barry feel at ease, but he soon adopted
a patronizing tone that the other didn’t relish, and as a result
Barry’s evening calls at Number 42 Dawson became fewer and fewer and he
relied on seeing Clyde during the forenoons, between recitations. Now
and then a day passed with no more than a dozen words between them, and
Barry blamed himself and, recalling his obligation to the other, made
greater efforts the next day.
Once――it was the Sunday following the Shefford game――Clyde walked out
to the Lyle house shortly after dinner and found Barry and Peaches
on the porch, surrounded with Sunday papers. Although Barry took the
visitor up to his room, Clyde remained but a few minutes. A week
after that, when Barry’s father and mother motored over to see him,
Clyde, informed of the coming visit, was on hand and helped Barry do
the honors during the four hours of their stay. When Mrs. Locke said
gratefully that it was splendid of Clyde to look after Barry so well,
Clyde, while verbally disclaiming credit, was plainly of like opinion.
Mr. Locke, whose eyebrows had raised slightly at first glimpse of
Barry’s room, cast a shrewd look at Clyde and said, “Hm!” in a tone
that meant anything you liked.
The next day the home team met and defeated the local high-school
eleven by the one-sided score of 22 to 0, and again Barry watched
the game with Peaches. Mill made a third, however, and growled
constantly at the idea of any sane fellow going in for such a piffling,
uninteresting recreation as football. Clyde played the last two periods
at right half and rather disappointed Barry. He was twice stopped
behind his line and acted generally as though not fully awake. But then
the whole team was logy that day, possibly because of the heat. The
three stuck it out to the end, hoping for and rather expecting a turn
of the tables toward the last. But it didn’t come. Wessex, playing her
first game, had less to offer than Broadmoor.
Parting from Mill at the gate, Barry and Peaches entered the house and
Peaches proceeded to the little table that held the telephone and the
mail.
“Nothing for you and nothing for me,” he announced. “Toby gets it
all. But――I say!” Peaches lifted a small package and viewed it with
deep suspicion. “Something ought to be done about this.” He carefully
returned the package to the table, his countenance expressing extreme
distaste.
“What is it?” asked Barry, from the foot of the stairway.
“I don’t know,” said Peaches, mournfully, “but I fear the worst. Toby!
Oh, Toby!” A door opened above and Toby answered the hail. “Come down
and take it away,” called Peaches.
“Take what away where?” asked Toby.
“Take this away anywhere! It’s a package for you, dear one, and it
smells to heaven!”
“Mail?” inquired Toby, eagerly. He came hurrying down. “Let’s have it,
Peaches.”
“I’ll not touch it again. Come and get it.” Toby finished the descent
indignantly and clutched his prize.
“It’s the snails!” he chortled gleefully.
“Snails!” exclaimed Barry and Peaches in chorus.
Toby nodded, studying with a positively thrilled look the inscription
on the wrapper. “A fellow I correspond with in South Carolina sent
them. They’re salt-water snails.” He turned toward the stairs again,
beaming through his spectacles, but Peaches laid a detaining hand on
his shoulder.
“Toby,” he said gravely, “I’ve bad news for you.”
“Huh?” said Toby.
“Try to take it like a man, Toby. Bear up, you know, and all that.”
“What’s eating you?” demanded Toby, very inelegantly.
“Prepare yourself, my friend.” Peaches’ voice trembled. “This will
be a great shock to you. They――” he pointed tragically to the
package――“they’re dead, Toby, quite dead!”
Toby stared blankly an instant. Then his gaze went to the package.
“Who’s dead?” he asked. “The snails, you mean? Of course they’re dead,
you chump! They can’t live out of water, can they? Huh!”
Toby gave the other a scathing glance and mounted the stairs. Peaches
fell in behind and Barry followed in turn, and as the two tramped
solemnly upward they chanted a dirge for the dead snails.
It was the middle of October now, but Indian summer dwelt in the
Connecticut hills. The days were warm and languorous, sweet-scented
with drying grasses and late blossoms; and while coolness came with
twilight, the evenings were frequently so mild that the Lyles’ porch,
which caught the last rays of the sun, was comfortable until, perhaps
about nine o’clock, a little chill breeze wandered across the clover
meadows. Then Mrs. Lyle would say:
“Betty, don’t you think it’s getting―― Father, I think perhaps we’d
better go in now.” And then, raising her voice a trifle: “Father! It’s
time to go in. It’s getting quite――” Whereupon Mr. Lyle, sound asleep
in the hammock in the darkest corner, would respond brightly with:
“Eh? Yes, yes, Mother! I was――er――just about to suggest it.”
Now that Barry had virtually ceased his evening visits to Clyde, he
was at liberty to join the gathering after supper. Always there were
Mr. and Mrs. Lyle, Betty, and Peaches; frequently Toby as well. Mr.
Benjy, having finished reading the afternoon paper, acquainted them
with the happenings in the outside world, adding personal comments.
Mrs. Lyle supplied the simple gossip of the neighborhood and narrated
the domestic episodes of the day. Something thrilling was always
occurring to Mrs. Lyle; such as the overturning of a quart of milk by
Miss Muffet, the white cat, or the failure of a batch of jelly to jell.
Betty brought the news of the high school, and the boys drew on their
day’s experiences for items of interest. Mr. Benjy, having unburdened
himself of information and opinions, stretched out in the hammock and
quietly fell asleep. Barry enjoyed those evenings at home.
The Saturday night of the Wessex game was especially warm, and Barry
and Peaches went to the village and returned with ice-cream. Mrs. Lyle
supplied cake, and Peaches summoned Mill and Zo to the feast. Toby tore
himself from his defunct snails at the first hail of “Toby! Oh, Toby!
Ice-cream!” Zo had brought his violin along and later he played for
them. And when, after several classic selections, he rendered “Sunny
Days,” Toby joined the others in singing the words of the school song.
Toby sang very earnestly, with a voice like that of one of his pet
frogs!
When the violin was laid back in its case, conversation took the place
of music. Peaches inquired about the snails, and Betty, not having
heard the sad tidings, asked if Toby was going to train them. Peaches
replied reprovingly:
“Only ignorance can excuse such a――a callous question, Betty. The
snails are――the snails―― You tell her, Barry. I haven’t the heart to,
myself.”
“Dead,” said Barry, solemnly.
“Dead!” echoed Betty. “You mean they were dead when―― Why, then, that
was what――” Betty sought for a delicate phrase.
“It was,” affirmed Peaches. “Barry and I noticed it, too――shortly after
leaving the campus.”
“Aw, get out!” Toby protested. “Why, they don’t hardly smell at all.
Gee, there’s only eight of ’em, Mrs. Lyle!”
“Well, I’m sure I don’t know――” began Mrs. Lyle, doubtfully.
“I suspect you will know,” murmured Peaches, pessimistically. “Sooner
or later.”
There were footsteps on the farther sidewalk and a figure passed, a
dark form in the uncertain radiance of the nearest light. Barry saw
Mrs. Lyle lean suddenly forward and stare intently through the gloom,
saw Betty’s hand go out and rest on her mother’s, saw Mrs. Lyle settle
back in her chair. The sound of a faint sigh came to him in a pause of
the talk. It was a small enough incident, yet it left Barry vaguely
disturbed and curious. A moment later Mrs. Lyle said:
“Betty, don’t you think it’s getting just a little――”
Then Mr. Benjy was awakened and the party was over.
At the gate Walter Millington turned to call back:
“I’ll have my radio set up by Monday, Betty. I want you to come over
and hear it. And Mrs. Lyle, too, and Mr. Benjy, if they care about it.”
Betty consented eagerly, but what her mother said was drowned by Mr.
Benjy’s voice.
“Wonderful invention,” he was declaring as he got out of the hammock.
“Makes one wonder what――er――what next, eh? I was reading the other
day――”
But Mill and Zo didn’t wait to hear what he had read, and in the
withdrawal of the rest, which was accompanied by the scraping of
chairs, the balance of his remark was a total loss. But Mr. Benjy
didn’t mind. It happened so often.
Baseball practice was over for the fall and on Monday Peaches proposed
tennis in the afternoon. But they found all the courts in use, and so,
leaving their rackets behind, they sauntered over to the running-track
and watched the football squads performing on the gridiron beyond.
Peaches was rather bearish regarding Broadmoor’s chance of a victory
the coming Saturday, when she was to play Peebles School at Clear Lake.
“We haven’t got the material we had last year,” he said, sitting on
the turf and chewing a grass. “Lost a lot of good fellows in June.
Almost the whole back field and half the line. I don’t say the Major
won’t have a team by the time we face Hoskins, but he hasn’t got it
yet, nor the sign of it.”
Just then a stray football came bobbing across the running-track and
settled a few yards behind them, and Barry got up and went after it.
Some forty yards away down the field a player raised a hand in signal.
“Let’s see you kick it, Barry,” called Peaches. Barry smiled dubiously
but accepted the challenge. He poised the scuffed ball, stepped
forward, swung his right leg, and dropped the pigskin. Fortune stood
by him, for instep and leather met fairly and the ball arched away,
across the bluish ribbon of track, safely past the end of the goal, and
straight to the waiting player. Barry stared in mingled surprise and
pleasure and Peaches clapped his hands.
“If that wasn’t an accident,” he laughed as Barry returned to his seat
on the grass, “they ought to have you on the team. That was a mighty
pretty punt, son, and all of forty yards.”
“Well, but it _was_ an accident!” said Barry. “I haven’t touched a
football since last fall.”
Peaches shook his head.
“I don’t know. I’m afraid you’re trying to put something over on us,
Barry, my lad. I’m beginning to suspect――” He stopped suddenly and then
added in lower tones: “Here comes the Major! Say, I’ll bet you he saw
that and――”
The coach waited for a white-clad runner to pass and then crossed the
path.
“Hello, Jones,” he called. “I’ve hardly seen you this fall. How are
you?” The two boys arose and Peaches shook hands.
“First rate, Major, thank you. And you, sir? Have a nice summer?”
“So-so. Spent August in training-camp; that was fun. Got rid of five or
six pounds up there.” His cool gray eyes turned speculatively to Barry,
and Peaches announced:
“This is Barry Locke, Major. Major Loring, Barry.”
Barry shook hands, conscious of something questioning both in the firm
clasp of the coach’s hard, brown hand and in the level gaze. Major
Loring had a lean, deeply tanned face that was distinctly good-looking,
but Barry had the sudden conviction that if the firm mouth and the
steady gray eyes ceased to smile the Major wouldn’t look nearly so
pleasant! And Barry was also as suddenly convinced that should the
Major say, “Locke, stand on your head!” he would immediately and
unquestioningly stand on his head!
What the Major did say, however, was little like that.
“You’ve played football, I take it, Locke,” he remarked.
“Very little, sir,” answered Barry.
“What do you call very little?”
“Two years, sir, at high school. But I never made anything.”
“How old are you? Sixteen?”
“Not quite. I’ll be sixteen in December.”
“I see. You seem to be able to kick a ball.”
“That was――mostly accident, Major.”
“Possibly. Why haven’t you reported for football, Locke? Anything wrong
with you?”
“No, sir, only I――I just didn’t think I cared to try for it. I play
baseball.”
“I see.” Major Loring looked inquiringly at Peaches. “How has practice
been going?” he asked. “You’re through, aren’t you?”
“Yes, sir; finished Saturday. I guess we got on pretty well. We’re weak
in some places, but we’ll probably find some new material in March.”
“We’ll hope so. I tried to get over and have a look at you, but this
business here kept me busy.” He turned again to Barry and said
crisply: “Well, Locke, now that baseball’s over you can give us a
chance at you, I guess. I’d like to see you at work with the back-field
fellows. Start to-morrow, eh?”
Barry looked to Peaches for aid, but Peaches was grinning heartlessly.
Barry gulped and nodded.
“If you think――” he began.
“Good!” said the Major. “Report to the manager at three-thirty. I can’t
promise you anything but hard work this fall, Locke, but in this game
we have to keep next year always in mind.” He nodded to Barry and to
Peaches. “Come to see me, Jones,” he called over his shoulder as he
strode away.
Barry turned a perplexed and unhappy countenance to his companion.
“But――but I don’t want to play football!” he protested.
Peaches chuckled.
“Go and tell the Major, Barry,” he advised.
Barry stared at the coach’s retreating form and shook his head
despondently.
“You know blamed well I wouldn’t dare to,” he sighed. “He――he’d
probably order me shot at sunrise!”
CHAPTER VIII
WITH THE SQUAD
There was one person even more surprised at the addition of Barry to
the football squad than Barry himself. That person was Clyde Allen.
Barry felt that Clyde wasn’t going to be pleased. He couldn’t think of
any satisfactory reason for displeasure on his friend’s part, and yet
the conviction haunted him from the moment he was drafted by the Major
to the moment he found Clyde in Number 42 the next morning and broke
the news. At first Clyde laughed, for of course Barry was only joking.
But the laugh was short-lived. It ended abruptly in a frown.
“Do you mean it?” demanded Clyde, incredulously. Barry replied that he
did. “Well, but――but, for the love of Lucius, what’s the idea?” Clyde
wanted to know. “You’re no football player, Barry! I mean――well――hang
it all!――you know, yourself, you’re pretty fairly rotten!”
Barry agreed without resentment.
“It was just that I happened to boot that ball pretty decently and
he saw me,” he explained, “and――and then he said I was to report
to-morrow,――I mean to-day,――and that was all there was to it. He did
say, though, or as much as say, that I had no chance this fall; that he
had to think of next year.”
“Well, even so――” Clyde stopped and shook his head. Then he laughed
again, shortly, almost grimly. “I don’t envy you when the Major finds
out that that kick was just a fluke, Barry.”
“I told him it was,” replied Barry. “The most he can do is let me go
again.” He seemed to find reassurance in the thought.
“Yes, and the sooner he finds it out, the better for you. What I mean
is, he’s likely to get pretty sore if he wastes a lot of time on you
and then discovers that you’re punk! Coach didn’t happen to say where
he thought you’d fit, did he?”
“He said something about the back field.”
Clyde said, “Oh!” and stared hard a moment. Then he shrugged and turned
away.
“Well,” he said, “he knows what he’s doing, I suppose, but it looks
crazy to me.”
“But why are you so down on the idea, Clyde?” demanded Barry. “I can’t
see that there’s anything very much――very much out of the way in my
playing football if Mr. Loring wants me to.”
“‘Out of the way’!” echoed the other, impatiently. “Of course there’s
nothing ‘out of the way’! I didn’t say there was, did I? Great Scott,
Barry! All I’m thinking of is how you’ll look when the Major finds he’s
picked a lemon and gives you the gate. Fellows will laugh at you like
anything, I suppose, and I’ll have to hand out the yarn about the Major
insisting on having you, and it’s going to sound mighty fishy!”
“I don’t see that, Clyde. I mean I don’t see where you come in on
it. You say you’re responsible for me, but of course you aren’t; not
really.”
“It amounts to that,” Clyde persisted. “You know mighty well that if I
hadn’t――well, if I hadn’t done a certain thing a couple of years ago,
you wouldn’t be here at all. I can’t help feeling responsible. Besides,
your folks as good as put you in my charge.”
“Well, all right. That means you’d rather I didn’t report this
afternoon?”
Clyde considered. Finally he shook his head.
“You’ll have to,” he said. “The Major will raise Cain if you don’t. You
shouldn’t have agreed to play, Barry; but you did agree and now you’ll
have to go through with it. Only, if you’ll take my advice, you’ll
quit the first chance you get. It oughtn’t to be very hard to show the
Major that you aren’t football material!”
“I guess that’s so,” Barry agreed. “I didn’t realize you’d be so set
against it, Clyde, or I wouldn’t have done it. Although,” he added
reflectively, “I don’t see just how I could have helped it.”
Clyde was magnanimous.
“Well, don’t let it trouble you, Barry. I dare say you couldn’t have
done any different. The Major’s a hard guy to say ‘no’ to! Mind you,
I’d say, ‘Hang on,’ if I thought there was any chance for you, but you
know there isn’t. You aren’t the type for football, old chap.”
Barry didn’t say ‘yes’ to that; but he was relieved by his friend’s
return to good humor and didn’t want to offer any opinion likely to
disturb it again, so he left the last word with Clyde and hurried off
to a Latin class.
He had brought the remains of the previous season’s football togs to
Broadmoor, and at three o’clock he got into them. Peaches, watching,
declared that he looked exactly like Pete Zosker, only more noble. As
Pete weighed sixty pounds more than Barry, the statement indicated an
active imagination.
Barry found Sampson, the manager, gave his name, class, age, weight,
and a few other details, and became automatically a member of the
Broadmoor School football squad. Ira Haviland was in charge of the
back-field candidates, of which there appeared to be at least twenty.
Haviland was a tall, rather heavy First-Class fellow with a shock of
almost black hair and a voice like a good-natured fog-horn. He greeted
Barry with a glance of swift appraisal and a careless: “Yeah, Coach
told me about you. Push in with that bunch yonder, Locke.”
The day’s work consisted of the usual kindergarten duties. There were
passing and starting, tackling-drill, and, finally, signal-drill in
which Barry didn’t take part.
He didn’t find Peaches again until, in company with Zo, he went back
to the house after supper. The weather had turned cold over Sunday and
the front porch was deserted. The family were in the sitting-room, the
first room on the left, and he could hear Mr. Benjy reading something
from the evening paper, but a light upstairs had told him that Peaches
was in his room and he went up. Peaches, occupying two chairs, was
reading a magazine, but he dropped it when Barry pushed open the door.
“Hail, hero!” he declaimed. “Bloody but unbowed――what? Come in and rest
your wounds. How did it go? I watched you for a while, but there was a
certain monotony about your performance and I finally went over and cut
in on a tennis game. Do any punting, Barry?”
“No, I just stuck around with the dubs. I didn’t even see Major Loring
except in the distance. My boss was Haviland.”
“Ira, eh?” Peaches arose and closed one of the windows. “It’s getting
frosty, isn’t it? No more porch parties this year, I guess. Did you
hear Mill’s radio as you came in? He had it going a little while back.
Pretty screechy, though.”
“I didn’t notice it,” said Barry. Then, after a slight pause: “Say, I
wish you’d tell me something,” he began.
“I’ll tell you anything,” agreed Peaches, amiably. “You’ve come to the
right place, too. I’m chock-full of information to-night. Is there any
special subject that interests you or shall I just start off casual
like?”
“I want to know what’s wrong here,” replied Barry. “I mean in the
house.”
“Wrong in the house? Oh, I get you. It’s those snails of Toby’s. I
thought first it was the plumbing, but――”
“Shut up! Maybe I only imagine it, but ever since I came I――I’ve sort
of fancied something was queer. About the Lyles, Peaches. Mrs. Lyle
looks――oh, I don’t know, but I was wondering if there was anything
wrong with Mr. Benjy――or Betty.”
“I see what you mean,” responded Peaches. “I’d forgotten you weren’t
here last winter, and didn’t know about Davy.”
“Who’s Davy?”
“David Lyle, Betty’s brother. I might as well tell you the story, I
suppose. You’re sort of one of the family now. Kick the door shut, like
a good chap.”
Peaches hooked one foot about a chair and dragged it into position to
hold his legs. Then he continued:
“Davy is about twenty. He’s a decent chap, but more like Mr. Benjy than
his mother. He finished high school here a year ago and went to work
for Watkins and Boyle. Mr. Benjy was chief bookkeeper for them.”
“That’s the factory down by the station?”
“Yes. Well, I guess Davy did well enough, although I don’t know just
what his duties were: I remember he got a small raise at Christmas.
Then, along in February, a thousand-dollar bond disappeared. Of course
I didn’t hear the exact details, but there wasn’t any doubt that Davy
had seen it last. He claimed that he had put it in the safe, as he’d
been told to do, but it couldn’t be found and Watkins and Boyle were
pretty nasty. Of course Mr. Benjy wouldn’t believe that Davy had swiped
it――I don’t think he did, either――and he was all broken up. He offered
to repay the amount, and he’s still doing it, but the factory folks
thought something ought to be done to Davy. So about two days after the
bond disappeared the cops came along one morning, looking for him. They
didn’t find him, though, because he had beat it the night before.”
“Then he did steal the money?” exclaimed Barry.
“Well, I wouldn’t advise you to suggest that downstairs,” answered the
other, dryly. “Of course in a case like that the natural supposition is
that the fellow is guilty. If he wasn’t he’d stick around and face the
music. That’s what ’most everybody said; or if they didn’t say it they
thought it. But I don’t know, Barry. You see, the bond was gone. If
Davy didn’t have it he couldn’t prove he hadn’t. Maybe he figured he’d
get treated sort of rough if he stayed here. Maybe he thought the bond
would turn up and he could come back. Maybe he didn’t do much thinking
at all――just ran away because he was scared. If he was innocent he
did the wrong thing, of course; but, then, being arrested isn’t very
pleasant, I suppose, even if they let you off later. Anyway, Davy
disappeared and that ended the matter.”
“Was the bond――what-you-call-it?”
“Negotiable? Yes, a brand-new one that had just reached the office,
with all its nice little coupons attached. None of the coupons have
ever been presented for collection, and Mr. Benjy considers that proof
positive that Davy hasn’t the bond. He’s convinced that the thing will
turn up around the office some day, and from the way he described that
office to me last spring I wouldn’t be surprised if he was right. It’s
one of those places where the bookkeepers still sit on high stools and
they file things away in shoe-boxes!”
“And Mr. Benjy is still paying back the thousand dollars?”
“I suppose so. He was, anyway. As he’s getting only about eighteen
dollars where he is now, I fancy it’ll take some time!”
“Eighteen dollars a week? Then they fired him from the other place?”
“No, sir, they didn’t!” Peaches recrossed his ankles and chuckled.
“No, the old gentleman up and resigned on ’em! Said he wouldn’t work
for folks who believed his son to be a thief. You’ve got to hand it
to Mr. Benjy for that, Barry. He was getting pretty good wages at the
factory, had been with them something like fifteen years, I believe,
and he chucked the whole thing and went to work in the freight-station.
I heard Watkins and Boyle were after him again last month, but he
wouldn’t weaken. I like Mr. Benjy for that!” added Peaches, warmly.
“So do I,” said Barry. “Only, eighteen dollars a week seems mighty
little.”
“It is. And most of it goes to pay for that silly old bond. That’s
the reason I decided to stick here another year. They’re having hard
sledding. Of course if I’d given up this room some one else might have
taken it, but I couldn’t be sure. That room you’re in was empty, too.
About all they have now is what they get from these three rooms, and
that’s little enough.”
“What became of the son?” asked Barry.
“Davy? Well, he writes about every week. I suppose that after a while
Watkins and Boyle will forget their grouch, but I guess it wouldn’t be
wise for Davy to come home just yet.”
“You mean he’d be arrested?”
“Surest thing you know! The old warrant is still good. Well, that’s
pretty much that, Barry.” And Peaches stretched and yawned.
“I’m glad you told me,” said Barry. “It explains things. Like the other
night.” He told how Mrs. Lyle had become intent on the passing figure,
and Peaches nodded.
“Yes, she probably saw a resemblance to Davy. She misses him, I guess.
So does Mr. Benjy. Mr. Benjy seems a lot older this fall. Pretty
cheerful old bird, at that, but I’ve seen him looking awfully kind of
miserable when he didn’t know any one was watching.”
“Betty seems a good sort,” said Barry.
“Betty’s a corker,” asserted Peaches, enthusiastically. “She’s got the
brains of the family; and the pep, too. She really runs this shebang.
Mrs. Lyle’s a dear, but she couldn’t say ‘boo’ to a mouse.”
“Why should she?” inquired Barry. “‘Boo’ seems to me a perfectly
idiotic remark to make to――”
“That’ll do for you, son. Got any idea of studying to-night?”
“Some.”
“Bring your books over, then, and let’s get busy.”
CHAPTER IX
BARRY SHOWS HIS STUFF
It wasn’t until Friday that Barry had further speech with Major Loring.
For three afternoons he had been drilled in the rudiments and had not
got into signal work save for a brief ten minutes on Thursday. He was
getting a little impatient. If they were ever going to discover his
worthlessness they would have to give him a chance to show it. Clyde
was viewing him with increasing suspicion. Once in a scrimmage, Barry
told himself, he was certain to make a mess of things and get his
walking papers, but they wouldn’t let him into a scrimmage! Each day he
sat on the bench and just looked on.
On Friday there was only a short practice for the first- and
second-string players, since the next day’s game with Peebles was
expected to be difficult, and they were sent from the field early.
Those who remained were set against one another in a scrimmage, and
Barry, while he was still on the bench when the fracas started, was
pretty certain of getting into action before it was finished. He was
worried, however, by the fact that there was so much ragged playing
going on that any misdeeds of his were likely to pass unnoted!
“Locke! Oh, Locke!”
Barry started to attention. Major Loring was calling to him from the
farther end of the long bench. He got to his feet, dropping his blanket.
“Get a ball and come along,” called the coach.
Barry rooted in the canvas bag and found a ball which still showed some
of its original surface, then joined the Major.
“We’ll go down to the other end,” said the latter, leading the way. “I
want to see what you know about punting, Locke. Ever done much of it?”
“No, sir. I haven’t played a whole lot, anyway.”
“What position did you play when you did play?”
“I was tried at several places,” answered the boy, ruefully. “End,
first. And last year at quarter and half. I――I don’t think I’m any
good, sir. Not worth bothering with――much.”
Major Loring turned and surveyed Barry with a puzzled smile.
“You’re not stuck up about your playing, are you?” he asked. “What are
you trying to do, Locke? Get me to let you go?”
Barry flushed.
“Well, I’m not very particular about playing, Major. Not this year.”
“I believe you,” said the other, dryly. “Still, I think you’d better
stick it out for a few days longer. Here we are. Now punt one back of
goal. Don’t try for distance. Swing easy. Take your time.”
Barry realized that here was an excellent opportunity to prove his
case. All he had to do, doubtless, was to mess up a few punts. He had
told the coach that the kick of Monday was largely an accident, and if
he failed a few times now the Major was bound to believe it. But, as
he turned the pigskin in his hands, he knew that he wasn’t going to be
able to pretend. Probably he would perform poorly enough, in any case,
but at least he would just have to do his best.
His best wasn’t so bad, as was proved an instant later. He had failed
to strike the ball squarely and it went off to the left, but it covered
most of forty yards before it landed. The Major started away after the
pigskin and Barry followed him. After a moment the Major said:
“Not bad, Locke. In fact, I don’t see why we can’t make a punter of you
in time. Let’s try it again. Kick down the field this time, so that one
of those fellows can send it back.”
This time, by being more careful about dropping the ball, Barry did
better as to direction, slightly better as to distance. He made five
other tries in the course of the next ten minutes. None of the punts
were remarkable, none were, under the circumstances, really bad. Major
Loring stopped him several times and corrected the boy’s methods. Barry
did not, he said, swing his kicking leg wide enough; nor did he carry
his foot up sufficiently after meeting the ball. Trying to remedy these
defects, Barry did not quite so well as at first. Major Loring called a
halt finally, tucked the ball under his arm, and went back to the bench.
“It looks to me,” he said shrewdly, “as if you’d done more punting
than you tell about, Locke. You’re very far from perfect, but you show
evidences of a good deal of practice. What’s the answer?”
“I guess that’s because I kicked the ball around a good bit summer
before last. I had sort of an idea I might get a place on the
high-school team; just as a substitute, of course. I used to practise
on the beach, up in Maine. There was a slope, a kind of cliff, back of
the beach, and when it was low tide I could kick toward the cliff and
the ball would roll pretty well back to me. Sometimes Clyde Allen and
one or two other fellows up there would take a hand.”
“I see. Well, I think you’d better make up your mind to stick with us
this fall. For a month anyway. If you come along well, I may give you
a chance in a game before the season’s over. Anyhow, Locke, you ought
to be in line for a back-field position next year. That would give you
two seasons on the team here and send you up to college pretty well
prepared to grab off a place there.
“Now, you’ll work along with the backs, Locke,” the Major went on, “and
learn all the football you can. Punting is a good thing to know, but it
won’t get you anywhere unless you’re an all-around player. For a while
I want you to put in fifteen or twenty minutes――fifteen is enough for
now――practising punts. You can do it during scrimmage. Get one of the
fellows to catch for you. All right?”
“Yes, sir, only――”
“Only what?” asked the Major, a trifle sharply.
Barry blinked. He couldn’t tell the Major about Clyde’s not approving
of his playing football! He fell back on his former plea.
“I don’t believe I’ll ever make a player, sir,” he said desperately.
“You won’t if you insist on keeping that idea in your head,” observed
the Major. “Get rid of it, Locke. You do your best: that’s all I’m
expecting. If your best isn’t good enough, I’ll let you know, all
right.”
He nodded, arose, and walked out on the field, leaving Barry with the
rueful suspicion that, as a start for his football career, he had
displeased the coach!
Only twenty-six players made the trip to Clear Lake the next day, and
Barry was not one of them. Nor did he make one of the hundred or so
fellows who followed the team by train. He put in a quarter of an hour
punting to Peaches and then played four sets of tennis with that youth,
meeting defeat in three of them. At five o’clock they learned the
result of the football game, by calling up the telegraph office in the
village. Peebles had won by the score of 21 to 31.
“That,” said Peaches, as they left the booth in Croft Hall, “is worse
than I expected. What’ll we do between now and supper-time? Let’s go to
the village.”
“What for?”
“I don’t know,” acknowledged Peaches, in a discouraged voice. “I’ll
tell you: we’ll go and make Zo play the fiddle to us!”
So they did, and Mill came across from his room presently and invited
them to hear his radio and they sat in front of a horn for a quarter of
an hour while Mill turned dials and frowned deeply, and heard a faint,
far-off voice say, “You have just listened to the Hotel Pyramid Dance
Orchestra play....”
The faint voice died into silence and Peaches shook his fist at the
horn and hissed, “Liar!” Mill wagged his head despondently. “It was
going fine a little while ago,” he said. “I don’t understand it!”
“Where,” murmured Peaches, “have I heard that before?”
Mill viewed him almost insultingly and Zo created a diversion by
drawing the bow across the strings of his violin and starting a
football song. In the middle of it Peaches, who had been staring
fixedly at the radio set, interrupted with a shout.
“I’ve got an idea!” he proclaimed.
* * * * *
The football team arrived in time for supper, bearing indications
of having spent a strenuous afternoon. Pete Zosker appeared to have
taken a leading part in a train wreck, and both Goof Ellingham and Ira
Haviland looked as if they might have been dropped from an airplane.
Some of the others showed minor abrasions. A fat boy at Barry’s table,
after viewing the returned heroes as they passed, remarked in an awed
tone:
“Gee! it must have been some party!”
No one felt capable of improving on that and it was tacitly accepted as
an expression of general opinion.
It was plainly evident that Major Loring wasn’t pleased with the team’s
performance, for on Tuesday there were several shifts in the first
line-up. Sinclair yielded right guard’s post to Rusty Waterman and went
to the subs. Kirkland replaced Leary at right tackle, and several other
changes were effected in line and back field. By the end of the week
some of the ejected ones were back, however, Sinclair among them, and
the line-up that faced the Greenville Academy wasn’t very different
from that of the previous week. But the Greenville game was not yet.
Barry was making progress, both with his punting and in his general
playing. He was aware of the fact, himself, after a few days, and the
knowledge was disquieting. Clyde’s disapproval was increasingly evident
and Barry’s excuses failed to satisfy. Clyde refused to perceive any
improvement in the other, or any signs of promise.
“You’re letting Loring make a fool of you,” he declared darkly. “Lots
of fellows have asked me about it. They’re laughing at you. Don’t say
I didn’t warn you, when Loring lets you out some fine day and you’re
trying to explain how it happened!”
“I don’t see,” said Barry, mildly, “why it’ll be necessary for me to
explain. If I don’t make good, that’s all there is to it. I can’t see
any――any disgrace in it, Clyde.”
“It’s always a disgrace to try something impossible and come a
cropper,” Clyde stated. “Fellows hate failures, as you’ll find!”
After a moment’s consideration Barry nodded.
“Well,” he said, “maybe something will happen――or something. I’ll do my
best, Clyde.”
Nevertheless, he departed from that interview far from convinced. He
knew that Clyde had always been extremely sensitive to ridicule; he
could recall several instances in proof; but now he seemed――Barry
searched for a word and presently found it――supersensitive. Broadmoor
had changed Clyde, Barry reflected, and not altogether for the better,
in the latter’s judgment. There were moments, these days, when Barry
almost regretted the obligation which bound him to the other boy.
It was on Wednesday evening that Walter Millington gave his radio
party, an affair that remained a topic of conversation for many days.
Although Mill acted as host, much of the credit for the party must
be given to Peaches, since the original idea was his. Then, too, it
was Peaches who after great effort persuaded Toby Nott to attend; and
there’s no denying that minus Toby the party wouldn’t have been a
success at all.
Toby didn’t know much about radio and cared a great deal less. He
stated the fact plainly and repeatedly, and even the news that, by rare
good fortune, Professor Brown of Onondaga University had been secured
to speak on “The Care and Feeding of Batrachians,” that evening, left
him at first unmoved. It wasn’t until Peaches had anxiously reminded
him that Batrachians were frogs and toads and such that Toby became
interested, staring thoughtfully at the other.
“Maybe I ought to hear him,” he admitted. “I’ve never had much luck
keeping frogs. Antonio doesn’t seem to like what I give him; and it’s
getting awfully hard to find flies and ants, now the weather is colder.
Can you understand what he says, Peaches?”
“Just as clearly as if he was in the same room with you,” Peaches
assured him.
“What did you say his name was?” Peaches repeated the information and
Toby shook his head. “I’ve never heard of him.”
“Well, I guess he’s all right,” said the other. “They wouldn’t be
sending out his stuff if he weren’t a top-notcher.”
“Where’s this Oniondig――where’s this college, Peaches?”
“Onondaga? Why, at Onondaga, New York, isn’t it?”
“Yeah, I guess so. All right, I’ll be over. What time did you say?
Half-past seven? Yell to me when you go, will you? I might forget. Say,
you know those snails I got last week? Let me show you ’em now.”
“Never! Listen, Toby; I’ve seen――I mean I’ve smelled all I want to of
those snails. Too much is plenty!”
“They don’t smell now; honest!” declared Toby, earnestly, as he
proffered a flat box for inspection. Well, they didn’t――much. Peaches
looked and poked them about gingerly.
“What’s become of their little insides?” he inquired.
“Why, I cleaned them. You boil them and then you take a little hook
and――”
“Toby! Don’t tell me any more!” Peaches shivered violently. “I didn’t
know you were French, Toby!”
“French? How do you mean, French? What’s eating you?”
“I thought only the French――er――ate snails.”
“Who said anything about eating them?” demanded Toby, indignantly. “Of
course I didn’t eat them! I just cleaned them out and polished the
shells. Look at the markings on some of them, Peaches. Aren’t they
pretty?”
Peaches acknowledged that they weren’t unattractive and asked, “What
are you going to do with them now?”
Toby stared.
“Do with them?” he echoed.
“Do with them,” assented Peaches.
“Why, keep them, of course.”
“Keep them.” It occurred to Peaches that the conversation was becoming
rather idiotic. “Oh,” he murmured comprehendingly.
Toby nodded, evidently relieved that the idea had at last been grasped.
“Just keep them,” he said gently in the tone of one speaking to a
mental deficient. Peaches nodded now.
“I see,” he remarked approvingly. “Just――er――keep them.”
“Yes,” said Toby, patiently.
“Splendid! Well――” Peaches reached the other side of the door before
he was obliged to apply a handkerchief to his eyes. He hoped that Toby
wouldn’t think he was choking and come to his aid.
CHAPTER X
STATION W.L.L.O. BROADCASTS
Mill’s room was quite full at the appointed hour. Mr. and Mrs. Lyle
and Betty had come with Peaches and Toby. Mrs. Anderson, a plump,
good-natured lady, overflowed from her chair and, of course, Zo was
there, and Mill himself. The only absentee was Barry, but Peaches
explained that he would be along later.
Mill had changed the location of the radio set. It now stood close to
the high chiffonier and several feet from the wall. The table on which
it reposed was draped with a heavy cloth――loaned for this occasion
only by Mrs. Anderson――which fell to within a few inches of the floor.
As the cloth was gorgeously crimson, it added greatly to the scene
and set off beautifully the shining black panel of the receiver and
the wide-mouthed horn beside it. Of course the guests had to view the
apparatus at close range and have its mysteries explained to them, and
after that they retired expectantly to the half-circle of chairs and
Mill became busy at the dials.
“I hope we’ll get something to-night,” he announced. “I’ve been having
pretty good luck, but you never can tell.” Toby, who had inspected
the instrument with the others but had failed to show himself much
impressed, was here heard to utter a suspicious “Huh!” Mill ignored
it. “We’ll try for some music first,” he went on, both hands busy at
the little black knobs. Then, with startling suddenness, some one was
singing an Irish ballad! Mrs. Lyle gasped, “Gracious goodness!” and
Mr. Lyle beamed and rubbed his hands quite as though he were entirely
responsible for the miracle.
“W.D.J.K,” announced Mill, above the voice of the singer. “New York.
That’s a fellow named Burns singing. He’s pretty good.”
“Oh,” sighed Mrs. Lyle, “I thought it was John McGregor!”
“McCormack, Mamma,” Betty corrected gently.
“Yes, of course, dear. I meant――”
There was an orchestral selection after that, mysteriously picked out
of the air by the simple readjustment of the knobs, and then an almost
deafening shriek of static that made Mrs. Lyle jump and produced a
painful facial contortion from Toby, no longer a doubter. Mill put
the instrument through its paces very thoroughly for the benefit of
its eager audience and was patiently trying to pick up Cleveland when
Peaches interrupted:
“Say, Mill, it’s almost eight, and I told Toby you’d get that Onondaga
University lecture. You know, the one by Professor Brown about frogs.”
Mill looked blank for a moment. Then he said:
“Oh, yes, I remember. Was that at eight? All right. Let’s see.” He
consulted a sheet of paper. “W.L.L.O. That’s it. I’ll see if there’s
anything doing yet.” He manipulated the knobs of the dials again, at
first with no result. “That’s funny,” he muttered.
Mr. Lyle consulted his watch.
“Seven fifty-six,” he said. “Likely it isn’t time yet.”
“Oh, they don’t always start just on the minute,” said Peaches. “Do
they, Mill?”
“Not always.” Mill turned the knobs some more and then stood up and
leaned over the table. “Maybe the wiring’s loose,” he muttered. He said
something else, probably to himself, since it was not intelligible to
the audience, while leaning over the dark space behind the table. Then,
although it still lacked three minutes of being eight o’clock,――Mr.
Benjy set his watch every day by the station clock,――a rather
high-pitched voice suddenly broke into the expectant silence:
“Station W.L.L.O., Onondaga University Experimental Station, Onondaga,
New York, broadcasting. The first number on our program this evening
will be a paper read by Professor N. B. Brown, D.S., S.D., R.O.T.,
of the Department of Zoölogy, Onondaga University. Station W.L.L.O.,
broadcasting.”
There was a pause.
“Much more distinct,” said Mr. Benjy, looking around for confirmation.
Mrs. Lyle nodded. “Different,” she whispered. “Sounds almost as if――”
Toby was leaning forward and gazing absorbedly at the horn, seeking
enlightenment on the care of Antonio. Betty, her eyes dancing, was
looking questioningly at Peaches’ impassive countenance. After a brief
moment a deeper voice came to them, somewhat muffled but very distinct.
Toby’s intent frown indicated almost painful effort.
“Ladies and gentlemen,” began the unseen lecturer, “I shall speak to
you this evening, very briefly, on the subject of ‘The Care and Feeding
of Batrachians.’ Batrachians, as most of you know, are frogs, toads,
snakes, and similar insects of a zoöphagous nature.”
“What’s he mean――‘insects’?” demanded Toby, in a hoarse and protesting
whisper.
Peaches said, “S-sh!” and frowned him into silence. The voice of the
professor possessed quite a different tone than those who had preceded
him. It was no clearer, but it gave the impression of coming from a
point much nearer than Onondaga, New York. The professor did not seem
used to public addresses, either, for he hesitated frequently and
frequently repeated himself.
“The domestication of the frog is a simple matter and is becoming more
and more popular. Indeed, it would seem that the day is not far distant
when every family will have its pet frog or toad. The frog is capable
of being trained into a useful household member. It is affectionate and
faithful, responding readily to kind treatment. Efforts now being made
by the American Frog Fanciers’ Association to produce a breed of very
large frogs to take the place of watch-dogs promise to be successful.
The deep-bass challenge of a watch-frog will, I think, strike terror to
the heart of any midnight marauder.”
Toby’s face was a study now. He turned puzzled, searching glances
on the other members of the audience, but nowhere could he discern
anything save ready acceptance of the professor’s surprising
statements. Perhaps Mr. Benjy looked a trifle startled, but certainly
not incredulous. Mrs. Anderson beamed contentedly, Mrs. Lyle listened
with flattering attention, and Betty, with lowered head, seemed
completely absorbed in the subject. Peaches and Zo wore expressions of
polite interest and Mill――well, Toby couldn’t see Mill’s face, as the
latter was increasingly busy with the instrument.
“The feeding of the frog while in captivity,” continued the professor,
“is a matter of great moment and one little understood by the
amateur frog-owner. Experiments conducted by the Onondaga University
Experimental Station, under my direction, have recently thrown much
light on this subject. While the frog in his natural environment
is a carnivorous mammal, once placed in captivity he soon becomes
herbivorous, thriving on a vegetable diet. With a little training the
domesticated frog will, in fact, eat almost anything. Here at the
station we have found that a breakfast of corn-flakes, with a small
amount of milk and sugar, a luncheon of pickled beets or raw onions――”
Toby was in a pathetic state of protest. He made all sorts of strange
noises in his throat and would doubtless have exploded had it not been
for the stern gaze of Peaches.
“――and a dinner of sauer-kraut, with perhaps a small portion of
hard-boiled egg, have proved very satisfactory. A firm in New York
is now putting on the market a ‘frog biscuit’ which I can heartily
recommend.”
“He’s crazy;” protested Toby, hoarsely. “He――he――”
“Shut up!” warned Peaches, and Mrs. Lyle shook her head in gentle
deprecation. Betty fumbled for her handkerchief. Toby glared and
muttered beneath his breath, and shuffled his feet rebelliously.
“The frog,” the professor was continuing, now seeming more en rapport
with his subject, “should be provided with a warm bed, free from
drafts. Nothing is better than the frog-kennel which may now be
procured from any enterprising dealer in frog-supplies. This should be
lined with cotton batting, while a few thicknesses of some soft woolen
material should be provided for the frog to draw over him on cold
nights.”
“Huh! Just a lot of lies!” shrieked Toby. “He doesn’t know what he’s
talking about! Listen a minute――”
But no one seemed able to listen. Peaches was holding his head in his
hands, Zo was frankly weeping,――or something,――and Betty was snuffling
into her handkerchief. Even Mr. Benjy seemed strangely affected. Queer
sounds mingled with the speech proceeding from the direction of the
radio, sounds of suppressed sobs, sighs, chokes! Mill was leaning his
head against a dial, his shoulders shaking. Toby stared, open-mouthed,
from one to another, and while he was still striving to understand what
it all meant the professor gave utterance to what was to prove the last
verbal straw.
“For this,” declared the professor, “we have the word of no less an
authority on the domestication of the frog than Mr. Tobias Theocritus
Nott, the eminent――”
There was a roar from Toby, the crash of an overturned chair, and then
bedlam!
“_Look out for the radio!_” shrieked Mill, stretching protective arms
about the instrument.
Toby was almost lost to view under the folds of the red cloth, but not
for long. Breathing stertorously, he emerged, dragging behind him in
his remorseless grasp the disheveled form of Barry――Barry helpless
with laughter and holding in one hand a crushed megaphone and in the
other a crumpled sheet of paper!
“Huh!” said Toby when the audience had calmed down once more, “I
knew there was something mighty funny about it! Feeding a frog with
sauer-kraut and――and all that piffle! Huh! Any fellow would know that
was perfectly crazy!” He gazed scornfully about him, encountered
the streaming eyes of Peaches, and gave a grudging chuckle. “Well,
I ain’t saying you didn’t fool me just at first,” he acknowledged,
“but――shucks!――it didn’t take me long to find out! Say, who made up all
that stuff? I’ll bet it was you, Peaches. Gee! you were ignorant! Why,
say, you called a frog an insect right at the first of it!”
Peaches gave way to a fresh spasm of emotion, clinging to Zo’s chair.
Mrs. Lyle was saying to Mrs. Anderson:
“Well, I did think it was sort of―― But so many things go on nowadays――
And coming right out of the radio machine like that――”
“Don’t――don’t say any more, Toby!” begged Peaches, wiping his eyes.
“I――I can’t stand it!”
“Well, well!” Mr. Benjy chuckled admiringly; “quite a――er――quite a
hoax, Mother!”
“Wonderful!” Mrs. Lyle agreed. “And I don’t see yet how Barry made that
music. It sounded so natural that――”
“But, my dear, the music was――er――that was real,” explained Mr. Benjy.
“The deception began with the――er――the speech by the professor.”
“Goodness gracious!” exclaimed Mrs. Lyle. “So that’s how it was! Well,
I’m sure――”
“Please, Barry, may I have the――the speech?” asked Betty. “I’d love it.”
“I guess so,” said Barry. “If Peaches doesn’t want it. It was so dark
back there I couldn’t see the writing half the time. That’s why I sort
of muddled it.”
“But where were you when we came in?” asked Betty. “I’m sure I didn’t
see you behind the table, for I looked there. Walter showed us where
the wires went.”
“Under it,” chuckled Barry. “And there wasn’t much room there, either!”
* * * * *
Cloudy sky and chill winds greeted Barry when he awoke the next
morning. Mount Sippick had hid its head under a leaden-hued canopy of
mist. Leaves were scurrying along the road and overnight, or so it
seemed, Brazer’s marsh had turned to russet and crimson. But it was
fine football weather, and that afternoon practice went with more vim
than ever before that season. The squad was noticeably smaller and
Barry learned that the Major had made a cut the day before.
“Where have you been?” asked Ike Boardman, who supplied the information.
“The notice was on the board yesterday after practice.”
“I didn’t see it,” said Barry. “Did you――you didn’t happen to――I mean
was my name down?”
“Yours? No, of course not. Don’t you worry, Locke. I’ll bet a hat the
Major will have you in the line-up before long. He’s got a crush on
you, I guess. No offense, Locke. I’ll say you’ve got as much right
there as Gissing or Allen.”
“Allen!” exclaimed Barry. “You mean Clyde Allen?”
“Sure. That’s the only Allen we’ve got, isn’t it? What’s so surprising?”
“Gee! I wouldn’t like to――” Barry lapsed into troubled silence.
“Oh, I see!” chuckled the substitute quarter. “Allen’s a side-kick of
yours, isn’t he? Well, listen, kid: friendship ceases on the football
field. If you can beat him for a half-back job you go ahead and do it
as hard as you can. It’s up to him, Locke. I believe you can do it,
too. He can’t punt, can he? I’ve never known him to, anyway.” Boardman
chuckled. “Oh, boy! and wouldn’t it get his goat! Your friend Allen,
Locke, thinks he’s a regular terror in the back-field. Some one ought
to tell him to stop fancying himself and get to work.”
Barry had hitherto considered Ike Boardman rather a sensible chap,
but now it was apparent that he possessed very poor judgment. To say
that Clyde was in danger of losing out to him, Barry, proved it. That
was a ridiculous notion, evidently born of Ike’s lack of appreciation
of Clyde. Barry almost, but not quite, wished that Major Loring had
included his name in the list of those released from the squad. It
would have made it much easier to face Clyde presently. Clyde was
getting awfully sort of distant nowadays, and Barry didn’t like that.
However, such reflections didn’t last long, for Major Loring drove the
players hard that day, and when one is plunging at a canvas dummy that
is being drawn creakily past on its rusted cable, or is concentrating
on a series of numbers in the effort to determine what they mean to a
substitute right half-back, there is little opportunity for thought on
other matters.
For the first time in a drill Barry was called on to punt that
afternoon, and although he was inwardly nervous as he retired to
kicking position and was over long in getting the ball away, he did
well enough. On two subsequent occasions he bettered his effort
considerably. When scrimmaging began he sat once more on the bench,
with Clyde a dozen spaces beyond and seemingly unaware of his
existence. He was glad when Clyde was summoned by the coach.
Just before the practice game was over Barry was called in, together
with four or five other bench-warmers, and had a few minutes of real
battle. He was given the ball but once and then managed to get some
three yards off the first-squad right tackle. A minute later he missed
a play and so was instrumental in securing a four-yard gain by Demille,
for which he received a merited dressing-down from the Major. After
that unfortunate incident he was not sorry when the horn squawked an
end to the session.
He went along with the team on Saturday, one, and perhaps the least
important member, of a squad of thirty-two players. Major Loring used
twenty-eight of the thirty-two during four twelve-minute periods, but
was not able to avoid defeat. Greenville Academy showed more advanced
football than did the visitors, using several complicated plays that
Broadmoor had learned no defense for. The final score was 14 to 6,
Greenville inflicting seven points on an already vanquished opponent in
the final moments of the last period.
Barry, viewing the contest all through from the side-line, alternately
hoped and despaired, rejoiced and groaned, and in the end took the
defeat much to heart and didn’t recover his spirits until he had
experienced the cheering effects of supper. The fact, gleaned from the
Sunday paper the next morning, that Hoskins had fairly romped away with
her game that afternoon brought no encouragement to the supporters of
the Purple-and-Gray. Pessimism and criticism were rife throughout the
school.
Monday brought back the daily grind of lessons and practice. The
weather relented and provided some warm days. Barry found that he had
become a regular member of Squad 3 and that Major Loring was giving him
a flattering if embarrassing amount of attention. The punting practice
continued and the school took cognizance of the fact that the Major was
engaged in developing a fellow named Locke, a Third-Class chap, into an
understudy for Tip Cartright and Ira Haviland; Barry discovered that he
had become a person of some small consequence. Fellows who had a month
before appeared unaware of his existence now took pains to nod to him,
and his circle of speaking acquaintances grew rapidly. All of which
pleased him. And then, on Friday, the impossible came to pass!
CHAPTER XI
MURRAY SCHOOL THREATENS
Friday was a day of leisure for many of the squad. The afternoon’s
proceedings began with a blackboard lecture in the gymnasium which all
attended, but after that the first-string players were through for the
day. For the others the scrimmage started late and twilight was already
threatening when the substitutes kicked off to the third. Clyde was at
right half on the subs and Barry found himself filling a like position
in the opposing line-up.
For some time the battle waged with neither side able to gain much
ground. Barry was called on for several punts, and although he had one
blocked, most of them were creditable. Not until darkness threatened
was the dead-lock broken. Then, after the subs had kicked out on their
own forty-six yards, and two attempts at the enemy had failed, Brush
called for kick formation and sent Barry back.
But the following signals didn’t call for a punt, and Barry thought
for an instant that he had misunderstood them. Then he quickly decided
that he hadn’t and, with his heart beating fast, held forth his arms.
This time the line held and the ball came true. Barry went through
the motions of punting and then swung to his left and with the ball
tightly clasped sped off toward the opposing right end, already coming
through. But Brush charged the end and Barry turned in. For an instant
he thought himself done for, but magically the subs parted, under the
persuasion of some really clever interference, and he was through. A
sub back charged him, arms wide for the tackle, but Barry feinted,
whirled, and passed him safely; and as he did so he saw that the player
was Clyde.
There was still danger from the subs’ safety man, but that danger
was soon over. Gissing had somehow disposed of his man and was now
spurting at Barry’s right, and it was Gissing and not Barry who met
the fierce tackle of Ike Boardman. The two merged in one confused blur
in the twilight as Barry went on. Footsteps pursued and voices shouted
encouragement or dismay, but Barry had only to keep the pace he had set
over five gray lines, and that he did. Well, perhaps not quite that,
for past the last yards his feet went slower, but he was over the goal
line well ahead of the nearest desperate pursuer.
Third got quite a thrill from that touchdown, and Pitkin, a six-foot
Second Classman with a voice that always shot up into a soprano under
stress of emotion, hauled Barry to his feet and piped shrilly: “Ata
kid! Ata kid! Pretty runnin’, Locke!” And Brush, panting hard, grinned
approval and would have hustled his men back to the five-yard line for
the try-for-point had not the Major intervened.
“That’s all for to-day, fellows,” he announced. “Never mind the goal,
Brush. It’s too dark for any more.”
In the locker-room Barry stole a troubled glance at Clyde. The latter,
pulling off his togs, was talking to Hal Stearns in undertones. His
lowered countenance looked to Barry most forbidding, and not until
Clyde was through the door that led to the showers did Barry take his
towel from a hook and follow. He didn’t want to meet Clyde just then.
Short of the doorway he was halted by Major Loring.
“Oh, Locke,” said the coach, “you didn’t get in any punting practice
to-day, did you? Better take a half-hour in the morning. Think you can
make it?”
“Yes, sir, I’ll have plenty of time to-morrow.”
“Good. Noble will help you. Tell him what time you’ll be out. And
try to keep that leg stiff, Locke, that’s your trouble now. You’re
improving, but I want to see you do a lot better yet. That was a nice
sneak you made, by the way. I saw that you hung to your interference
very cleverly.”
“Well, if I did,” laughed Barry, “I didn’t know I was doing it, Major.”
The Major smiled.
“All the better,” he said. “If you do a thing instinctively you’re not
likely to forget to do it. Boardman thinks he ought to have you on his
squad to do the punting, so to-morrow you join the subs. Good night.”
“Join the subs”! The words repeated themselves long after the icy water
was hissing over his bare shoulders. That could mean only one thing;
that he was to become Clyde’s rival for right-half position. What would
Clyde say? Gee! what _would_ he!
To his relief, Clyde had left the locker-room when he regained it. Of
course he would have to see Clyde, but he was willing enough to have
the meeting postponed. He went back to his room in a troubled state of
mind that remained with him until he had reached the supper table. As
usual, food proved cheering, and he discovered almost to his surprise
that he had brought a very vigorous appetite with him. Before long he
had put his problem aside and was chatting light-heartedly with Zo and
the others.
After the meal, when he saw that Clyde’s place at table was vacant and
knew that the right moment for finding that youth at home had arrived,
he recalled the necessity for looking up something in the library, and,
accompanied by Zo, sought the reference room and spent a good twenty
minutes delving into tomes. When he at last climbed the stairway in
Dawson and reached Number 42, that study was empty and dark. Vastly
relieved, he hurried after Zo and caught up with him just beyond the
gate. The younger boy noticed that Barry’s spirits were much lighter
than before the parting in front of Dawson.
The next morning he spent a half-hour punting to Noble, between two
recitations, and then came dinner, and suddenly the morning had passed
and he had not so much as set eyes on Clyde. However, he would find
an opportunity during the afternoon’s game to square himself――if he
could! But circumstances worked against him. In the gymnasium Clyde was
constantly in company with Hal Stearns or Goof Ellingham, and when
they reached the field warming-up practice began at once and while
Clyde remained on the bench Barry went down to an end of the gridiron
with three others and punted to the backs. When the first team took
the field Barry would have seated himself beside Clyde on the bench,
but there was Hal Stearns at Clyde’s elbow. Besides, Clyde’s chilly
nod of recognition earlier in the afternoon had done little to lend
Barry encouragement. He decided to wait until the next day. He could be
almost certain of finding Clyde on Sunday.
Broadmoor’s adversary was the Murray School team, a likely looking lot
of green-hosed lads who, in practice at least, handled the pigskin very
knowingly. The afternoon was sunny but crisp, and a fairly brisk breeze
quartered the gridiron from the northwest. Broadmoor presented her best
line-up at the kick-off, and no changes were made in it until near the
end of the second period. Then Rusty Waterman went in for Sinclair at
right guard, the latter limping off on an injured ankle. Neither team
scored in the first half. The Purple-and-Gray showed much improvement
over its performance of the previous week, but Murray presented a
strong defense and the home team’s two opportunities to score were
spoiled by the adversary.
When the third period began it was evident even to the lay eye that
Broadmoor had changed her tactics. With the wind favoring her to some
extent, she started a kicking game as soon as Murray had booted the
ball from mid-field to the waiting hands of Demille. Tip Cartright
kicked on second down from Broadmoor’s fifteen yards, the wind carrying
the ball out of bounds on the enemy’s forty-two. Tip’s punts were
not all perfect, but, aided by the quartering breeze, he managed
to make many of them difficult to catch. Finally, Broadmoor having
reached Murray’s eighteen yards, Haviland and Demille were called
on, and after the former had lost a six-yard gain because an end had
been caught off-side, Cartright faked a forward-pass and Demille,
on a Statue-of-Liberty play, scuttled around the left wing and went
across just inside the boundary. But Broadmoor had to be satisfied
with six points, for Murray broke through savagely and blocked Tip’s
try-for-point. The quarter ended after two more plays and the teams
changed sides.
Cartright showed wear now, and his return punts, made only when all
other methods had failed, were becoming short or erratic. With Murray
in possession well inside Broadmoor territory, and some six minutes of
the fifteen left, disaster came. Punting from his thirty-three, he sent
the pigskin almost straight into the air and the wind caught it, played
with it a moment and then dropped it close to where it had started
from, and Murray lined up on Broadmoor’s thirty-eight yards on first
down!
A gangling green-stockinged youth romped on from the side-line and took
over the left half’s head-guard and office, and then things began to
happen. The gangling youth turned out to be a specialist in pulling
forward-passes out of the air. He could do it in more ways and from
more positions than Barry, watching anxiously from the bench, had
thought possible. Murray gained seven yards and then five with his
help. An end run added three and then the specialist took a short
heave over center and laid the ball on Broadmoor’s nine yards. From
there a quarter-back run took it to the five-yard line. Murray faked
a place-kick and shot the ball far across the field to the demon
left half and with no one near to challenge him, he seemed to have a
touchdown for the taking. But Fate took a hand. Somehow, as he ran
backward, arms stretched out for the catch, he stumbled, and, although
he instantly recovered, the ball only tipped his fingers and grounded.
CHAPTER XII
CLYDE ASKS A FAVOR
Over at the Broadmoor bench Major Loring sprang to his feet, sent his
gaze along the line of huddled forms, and called, “Locke!” Startled,
Barry pushed his head from his blanket, like an inquiring turtle, saw,
and answered. The Major led him toward the end of the bench, a hand on
his arm.
“Go in for Noble,” he said crisply, “and kick out of there. Mind you,
don’t speak to any one but the officials until after the first play.
You’ll have to work fast, Locke, for those fellows are going to block
if they can. Keep your head, boy, lock your leg, and wham it! Go ahead!”
[Illustration: “KEEP YOUR HEAD, BOY, LOCK YOUR LEG, AND WHAM IT!”]
And Barry went ahead, trailing his blanket well onto the field before
he remembered that it still hung from one arm, rather scared but still
more determined to give a good account of himself, as he ran repeating
the coach’s brief instructions.
He reported breathlessly, took Noble’s head-guard, and slipped into
position. Zinn gave the signal and he smashed in behind Haviland. There
was a moment of frantic swaying and grunting and then the whistle
and the referee’s voice:
“Second down! About seven to go!”
Johnny Zinn, trotting back from a deceptive sortie toward the left
of the line, called signals as he came: “_Locke back! Twenty-seven,
sixty-one, fourteen! Twenty-seven, sixty-one, fourteen!_”
Barry shuffled his feet two yards behind the goal-line, came to rest,
stretched his hands toward the stooping Sisson. Beyond the line of his
own forwards, he saw the swaying, eager forms of the enemy, feinting,
pawing the air, desperation on every face. Then something brown left
the trampled sod ahead of him, grew larger as it turned lazily over
in its flight, and came to rest in his outthrust hands. Ten yards
away turmoil and confusion sprang to life. Forms leaped against the
sky as Barry took his step, dropped the ball, and swung a stiff right
leg through its arc. There came to him the reassuring concussion of
leather against leather, but he sensed it rather than heard it, for the
air was filled with cries and the pounding of feet and the rasping of
canvas-clad bodies. Then a charging enemy hurtled against him and he
went spinning aside and rolled over and over on the turf.
When he found his feet again the scene of battle was far off, for the
ball had covered more than forty-five yards and, its flight deflected
by the wind, had escaped a Murray back and bounced across the side-line
squarely in front of the Broadmoor bench and the Broadmoor coach.
Barry went limping up the field, trailing the green-hosed youth who
had thrown a hundred and sixty pounds against his ribs. The ball was
being stepped in midway between the forty-five and the fifty yards.
Broadmoor, on the stand, was still voicing its satisfaction. Johnny
Zinn, coming back to safety position, grinned at Barry.
“Corking work, Locke!” he commented as he passed.
Murray had asked for time and was mending her offense with new
material. But there were seconds left now instead of minutes,――not
more than ninety of them,――and the score on the board up there was
not destined to change. Murray tried desperately to get a man loose,
throwing thrice to the tall forward-pass specialist, but twice the ball
grounded and once only did he get his hands on it, securing then six
yards with Barry clinging to his legs. And then, with the Murray punter
stepping back, the end came, and Broadmoor had won, 6 to 0.
Barry, secretly still thrilled by the memory of that punt, though
trying hard not to show it, followed the well-worn path that led across
the field to the gymnasium, a silent member of a vocally triumphant
stream of players. He still limped a little, but he wasn’t aware of it.
He was supremely glad that he had come through so well. He wondered
if Major Loring was pleased. Some one ranged alongside and Barry
recognized behind a mask of grime the broad countenance of Pete Zosker.
“Lucky thing you got that guy, Locke,” said Pete, affably.
Barry stared up, perplexed. It seemed to him a strange way in which to
refer to a punt. But he nodded and Pete added:
“He’s a mighty good hand with those things. Wish we had him!”
“You mean...?” murmured Barry.
“Yeah, that long-legged half-back of theirs. If you hadn’t stopped him
that last time I’ll bet he’d have scored. He can run, that long-legged
kangaroo!”
It dawned on Barry then that the center was talking about his tackle
in the last minute of play and not about the punt, and he hurriedly
readjusted his thoughts.
“Oh!” he said. “Well, I guess Zinn would have got him.”
“Not a chance,” declared Pete, convincingly. “I don’t believe any
one could stop that cuss after he once got started!” Pete drew away,
leaving Barry sorely perplexed. Not a word about that forty-five-yard
kick, made with the enemy charging wildly down on him, made by one who
had never before that season taken part in a game with an outside team!
Not even mention of it! As for that tackle of the chap who had received
the forward-pass, why, it hadn’t seemed to him worth a thought. He had
been the nearest to the enemy and had instinctively made for him. By
good fortune he had got him. Any fellow could have done that, could
scarcely have avoided doing it, but that punt――well, he guessed that
even Pete Zosker wouldn’t have done any better under the conditions!
In the locker-room two others rendered brief commendation for the
tackle, one, Harris, right end, declaring that Barry had “sure saved
the old game that time!” Barry was unresponsive. He wanted very much
to say: “Well, but what about my punt from behind the goal-line? Where
were you when that happened?” But of course he didn’t. His feelings
were somewhat salved later, though, when Major Loring paused on his
way out to say: “That was well done, Locke. I was pretty sure you could
do it.” Barry was almost certain that the coach was referring to the
punt and not the tackle.
Once, while he was achingly divesting himself of his togs, he looked
across the room to find Clyde staring at him. Clyde’s expression was
queer, Barry thought. It seemed composed about equally of resentment,
puzzlement, and respect. Barry smiled. Clyde’s grimace as he turned
hastily away was doubtless meant for a smile, too, but it was a painful
effort.
Barry’s name was in the city paper the next morning. There was a very
brief account of the Murray game, and under the word “Substitutions”
occurred the following: “Locke for Noble.” That was all, but since it
was the first time his name had ever appeared in a metropolitan paper
he was decidedly thrilled. He cut out the story and treasured it.
After dinner that Sunday he turned his steps resolutely toward Number
42 Dawson. Clyde was at home and alone, and Barry somehow received the
impression that the other had been expecting him. Clyde was friendly,
almost anxiously so, and the lately patronizing manner was strangely
absent. Barry was too much pleased to wonder. They talked of several
things connected with Hazen, New York, and their folks, before the
subject of the previous day’s game was introduced by Clyde. Clyde was
flattering in his praise of the other’s performance, so insistent that
Barry became uncomfortable and broke in with:
“I was sorry you didn’t get in, Clyde. I thought of course you would.”
Perhaps the remark wasn’t very tactful, as he realized after he had
made it, but Clyde apparently took no exception to it; rather he seemed
to welcome it.
“I didn’t expect to,” he said. “I haven’t been having much luck
lately.” Then, after a moment’s silence, he continued, “I guess you
know why, Barry.”
Barry shook his head doubtfully.
“I don’t think so.”
“Oh, yes you do! Loring’s playing you up for all you’re worth. He’ll
dump me to the third to-morrow.”
“I don’t believe so,” said the other, uncomfortably. “I guess he wants
me just because I punt a little. I’m not much good at anything else,
Clyde. You know mighty well I wouldn’t want to――to hurt your chances!”
“Yes, I know that,” replied Clyde, gratefully. “That’s why I’m going
to――well, tell you just how things stand with me. I dare say you
thought it was sort of funny when I tried to discourage you about
football, but the truth is, Barry, I knew pretty well that you’d make
good if Loring took you in hand.”
“You didn’t say that!” Barry looked puzzled.
“No, because I didn’t want you to play. I know how it sounds; sort
of low-down, Barry; but, you see, it means a whole lot to me to make
the first this fall; lots more than it does to you. I’ve only got one
more year here and then I’ll be going to college. You and I are just
small-town folks. Of course Dad has some money, but he’s downright poor
compared with some fellows’ fathers, and no one has ever heard of him
fifty miles from Hazen. I mean I didn’t have much to start on when I
got here, Barry. I haven’t done so badly, considering; I’ve got in with
the right sort, I mean. But――well, it hasn’t been easy, it isn’t easy
to keep where I am.
“When I go up to college,” he went on, “a lot of fellows here now will
be big noises in the freshman class, and I’ve got to stick with them,
Barry. Well, about all I’ve got to bank on is my football. I haven’t
social position like some of them: we aren’t wealthy. Why, Jake
Greenwalk’s father could buy my dad out with a week’s income! So――well,
you see what I mean, don’t you, Barry?”
“I suppose so,” the younger boy answered slowly. “You want to trail
along with these fellows after you get to college and you think that if
you don’t make good in football they’ll drop you. Isn’t that it?”
“Yes,” said Clyde, eagerly. “A fellow has got to know the right sort
when he enters college, because if he doesn’t he won’t get anywhere at
all. Besides, it isn’t only college, Barry; it’s afterward, you know.
A fellow has to think of what’s going to happen after he’s out, and
the right sort of friends help a whole lot. This fall I thought I was
pretty sure of making the team. I thought I had a cinch. Then Loring
took a fancy to Demille and I saw about the best I could get was a
first substitute’s job, but I knew Demille wouldn’t be here next year
and I wasn’t worried so much. But now you’ve butted in.
“Oh, I know you didn’t want to,” he hastened to add, “but that doesn’t
help much. You can punt and I can’t,――not any better than a lot of
other chaps,――and Loring means to push you hard and use you in the big
games. That’s plain. It’s fine for you, but it dishes me for fair.
I’ll not get any sort of a show from now on. If I get into the Hoskins
game it’ll be for about a minute at the end of it. So you see, Barry, I
thought I’d tell you just how things stand and――and see what could be
done.”
“Sure,” said the other, vaguely. “What――well, have you thought of
anything?”
“Yes, but I don’t know how you’ll feel about it. Of course, in a way I
have a right to ask you, but――I’d rather you did it as a favor. We’re
pretty old friends, you know. I believe if you told the Major you’d
just made up your mind you weren’t going to play any longer he’d let
you off, Barry.”
CHAPTER XIII
BETTY CONFIDES
Twenty minutes later Barry left Dawson Hall and made his way
thoughtfully toward the gate. The quiet usually following a midday
Sunday dinner lay heavily over the campus. In the two dormitories
many windows were open wide to the sun-warmed breeze, and in most of
them youths lolled indolently. A voice now and then and the subdued
_tumpity-tump_ of a banjo alone broke the stillness, until, having
almost reached the gate, Barry heard tones of shrill protest, a laugh,
and the sound of scuffling in the fallen leaves. A few steps farther
along the curving drive he came within view of three boys. Two he
recognized; the third was a stranger. Rusty Waterman, Zo Fessenden’s
violin in one hand, was trying to possess himself of the bow. Zo, the
case hanging open from one hand and the bow in the other, was tugging
back from Rusty’s grip. The third boy stood by, laughing.
“No, please, Waterman!” Zo was pleading. “I don’t like to have folks
use it! You might break it!”
“Come on, come on!” said Rusty, impatiently. “Here, hold the fiddle,
Jack, till I get the rest of it. He thinks I can’t play!” Rusty held
out the violin. His back to Barry, he had not noticed the latter’s
approach. Barry stepped in front of “Jack” and took the violin.
“I’ll look after this,” he said. Rusty wheeled, dropping his grasp of
Zo’s arm.
“Oh!” he said, rather blankly. Then: “It’s Mister Buttinski again, eh?”
he added truculently. “What do _you_ want?”
“Not a thing,” answered Barry. He stepped around Rusty and gave the
violin to Zo. “Better put it away,” he advised. The youth called Jack
had edged aside and with an absolutely neutral expression was watching
developments. Zo smiled gratefully and returned bow and instrument to
their places, snapping the case shut while Rusty still stared peevishly.
“Let’s go,” said Barry.
Rusty found his voice again.
“Say, you think you can get away with anything, Locke, don’t you?” he
sneered. “Let me tell you something. If it wasn’t Sunday I’d teach you
good manners, you fresh dumb-bell!”
“Too bad it’s Sunday, then,” replied Barry, politely. “It ought to be
interesting to see you trying to teach manners, Waterman. To any one,”
he added.
“Is that so? All right, Locke, you’ll be first.” Rusty laughed hoarsely
at what he evidently considered a clever ripost and by a glance invited
his companion to share his amusement. Jack, however, ventured no more
than the faintest of smiles. Rusty’s own grin vanished and a very ugly
scowl took its place.
“I’ll settle with you yet, Locke,” he growled. “I haven’t forgotten,
and I’m not going to. You’ll get yours, I promise you!”
Barry made no reply and he and Zo went through the gate and turned
toward home.
“How did he get your violin?” asked Barry.
“He asked me to let him see it, and when I opened the case he took it
out. I asked him not to. Then he wanted the bow. He said he wanted to
play a jig. I was afraid he might break it, and wouldn’t give it to
him.”
“Does he bother you often, Zo?”
“No-o, not very. Two or three times he has stopped me and――and sort of
teased me.”
“How does he tease you?”
“Oh, makes fun of me and makes me shake hands with him and hurts me a
little. He presses his thumb in here.” Zo indicated the space between
thumb and first finger. “I don’t mind much. Once, just after they
caught me that time,――Pup Night, you remember,――he said he and some
of the others were going to lay for me some night and give me that
ducking. I was sort of scared for a while and used to wait for Mill
or some one to go home with me, but I guess he was only talking. He
doesn’t bother me much.”
“He’s a silly ass,” said Barry, impatiently. “Some one ought to teach
_him_ manners. I don’t suppose I could, but I’d be willing to try. You
ought to have told Peaches or me about him before, Zo.”
“I didn’t want to make――I didn’t want to have you think me such a baby.
I guess I am a baby, though. I don’t know much about fighting, Barry.”
“Well, you ought to know how to protect yourself, Zo, and when I can
find the time――after football’s over――I’ll show you a little about
boxing, if you like.”
“Thanks,” murmured the other, in no very enthusiastic tones. “I don’t
think I could ever be much of a fighter, though.”
Barry laughed.
“I don’t believe you could! But you’ll find that if you know how to use
your fists you’ll not have to use them. Not very often, anyway. Fellows
like Rusty don’t get funny with fellows who look as if they knew a
thing or two. What were you doing with your violin to-day, Zo?”
“I was playing for Mr. Sartier before dinner. He wants to start an
orchestra here. He’s an awfully good pianist, Barry. We tried three or
four things together and got along pretty well, I think.”
“A school orchestra, eh? Sounds like a good scheme, Zo. I hope Frenchy
makes it go. I’d a heap rather hear him play the piano than preside in
French class. By the way, if it does come off I hope you’ll speak a
good word for me, Zo. I’d like to join it.”
Zo smiled doubtfully.
“You don’t play any instrument, do you?” he asked.
“Don’t I! You ought to hear me play the baton!”
Barry’s amusement over his own joke didn’t survive the journey from the
front gate to the house, however, and Betty, in sole occupancy of the
sunlit porch, remarked:
“You must have said something awfully funny to make Zo Fessenden laugh
like that, but you don’t look now as if you’d ever joked in your life!”
Barry sat down on the edge of the porch and smiled weakly.
“I’m always saddest when I smile, Betty,” he answered. “Where’s every
one?”
Betty waved a slim hand vaguely.
“Gone,” she said. “Let’s see. Father’s taking his walk, Mother’s gone
to see Mrs. Travers, Peaches hasn’t shown up since dinner, and I’m
here. Oh, yes――and Toby’s upstairs where he always is.”
“Pinning inoffensive beetles to cigar-boxes, I suppose. He’s been
having a rough time at school lately. Some one let out about the care
and feeding of frogs and Toby’s getting frightfully ragged. Toby says
Mill did it, but Mill declares he didn’t.”
“Of course you don’t know who it was,” observed Betty, demurely.
“Well, if you think it was me, you’re wrong,” said Barry, grinning.
“When I tried to tell a fellow he said he’d already heard it!”
Betty laughed and Barry’s grin turned to a frown.
“I wish Peaches would come,” he said plaintively. “I want to talk to
him about something.”
“You and he are pretty good friends, aren’t you?” said Betty. “I’m
awfully glad. It’s funny, too, for he’s been here with us two years and
he was never chummy with any of the boys before.”
“He says I amuse him.” Barry turned from watching the road in the
direction of school and asked: “Why is it Peaches doesn’t have more
friends, Betty? I mean fellows he goes about with. He knows every one,
it seems, but he doesn’t seem to want to have much to do with any one.”
“I don’t really know, Barry. The first year he was here he started to
go around with two or three fellows in his class. You know them, I
guess: Ellingham and Prentiss.”
“I know Ellingham,” said Barry. “They call him ‘Goof.’ That the one?”
“Yes. And Prentiss is a tall boy with a lot of color in his cheeks, who
dresses a lot. Then there was another――he wasn’t in Peaches’ class,
when I think of it――named Shafter. They all belonged to the rich crowd
in school, you know. Well, Peaches went with them for maybe a month or
two and then all of a sudden he stopped. I never knew what happened,
only Davy said something to Peaches about it one day and Peaches
said, ‘Oh, they got my goat!’ Since then he’s sort of kept to himself,
although all the boys seem to like him a lot, and he always gets more
applause when he goes to bat in the ball games than any one else on the
team!”
“Funny for him to get in with the wealthy crowd,” mused Barry. “Maybe
they found he wasn’t――well, one of them, you know, and dropped him.”
“I guess he wasn’t one of them,” assented Betty, “because he’s so much
of a――a gentleman. Of course the others had lots of money, too, but
they――oh, I don’t know――they weren’t a bit like Peaches.”
“What I meant was that the others probably dropped Peaches because he
wasn’t rich enough for them. That is, his folks weren’t. I guess there
are quite a few snobs here.”
“But, gracious!” said Betty; “they weren’t any of them as wealthy as
Peaches! Why, they couldn’t be! At least, it doesn’t seem as if they
could.”
Barry stared.
“I don’t get you. Are you trying to tell me that――that Peaches’ folks
are well off? wealthy?”
“Well, gracious! aren’t they? I don’t know very much about it myself,
Barry, but Father said once that he guessed Harrington Jones was one of
the four or five richest men in the country. Anyhow, he must be richer
than――”
“Harrington Jones!” exclaimed Barry. “Do you mean that Peaches
is――is――Land of Liberty! I thought he was poor! Are you _sure_?”
“Of course I am!” laughed Betty. “Why, Mr. Jones was up here last
spring! He came for the Hoskins game. He sat right here on this porch
and talked to Mother and me and was perfectly darling. Peaches looks a
lot like him, too, and says things just the funny way his father does.
Why, the idea of thinking him poor! How ever did you get such a funny
notion, Barry?”
“Why――why, I don’t know,” murmured Barry. “He never _said_ anything.
And his room――I mean it doesn’t look like a rich fellow’s; now, does
it? Gee! and I was telling him one day how wealthy Clyde’s father is!
He must think I’m a――a dumb-bell!”
“He never does talk about money, or about his father, either,” said
Betty; “and his room isn’t fixed up much. But haven’t you ever noticed
what nice things he has, Barry? His brushes and toilet things are
lovely. And he has nice clothes, too. Even,” she added with a laugh,
“if he does go around wearing his oldest ones most of the time!”
“That’s so,” acknowledged Barry; “he has got some nice things upstairs.
I noticed his bureau one day, but I didn’t think about his having
silver brushes and photograph frames. Yes, and he has about two dozen
pairs of shoes, too, and I saw them and thought they were old ones and
joked him about it! Gee, Betty, he must be indecently rich!”
“I guess so, but I don’t care if he is; he’s awfully nice. We thought
of course he would go into one of the dormitories last year, but he
didn’t, and he didn’t this year, either; and it was just because he
knew Mother might have trouble renting his room again. I call that
awfully――thoughtful.”
Barry nodded.
“He said something about that. Said the faculty made it sort of hard
for folks who rented to students and he was afraid Mrs. Lyle wouldn’t
fill the room if he got out. Just the same, Betty, I think he likes it
here better than a dormitory.”
“Yes, I think so, too, and that’s just another nice thing about him,”
replied Betty, warmly. “Lots of boys in his circumstances, with all the
money they want, wouldn’t be satisfied unless they had the best room
in Meddill.” There was a pause, and then she asked: “Did he tell you
any more, Barry? I mean about――about my brother Davy?”
“Yes, he did,” Barry confessed a bit awkwardly. “I hope you don’t mind.”
“No, not a bit, Barry. You see, you’re a good deal like Peaches. I mean
you’re――” Betty hesitated, smiled, and shrugged her slim shoulders
apologetically. “I just mean that I don’t mind your knowing,” she
laughed.
“It was awfully――awfully hard luck,” said Barry. “I guess Mr. Benjy
feels pretty badly about it.”
“He misses Davy,” said Betty. “We all do. But you mustn’t think Father
feels badly, Barry, because, you see, Davy didn’t really do what they
said he did.” She looked down at Barry very straightly, a little
sternly.
“So Peaches said,” he answered. “And with both you and Peaches telling
me the same thing I’m bound to believe it.” He smiled, and Betty’s
severity relaxed.
“Peaches was a dear when it happened,” she said. “He tried very hard to
persuade Davy to stay here and prove his innocence, but Davy wouldn’t.
He was hurt, and a little bit frightened, too, I think, and he wanted
to get away from the talk. He couldn’t have, though, if Peaches hadn’t
helped him. We didn’t have any money in the house that night, and
Peaches went over to the school and got some from Mr. Puffer, the
treasurer, and――well, I don’t know the rest of it, because I never
asked.”
“He didn’t tell me that part of it,” muttered Barry. “Do you hear from
him, Betty? Davy I mean.”
“Oh, yes, he writes pretty regularly. He’s had an awfully hard time,
poor boy. He’s had four or five positions, but he can’t seem to hold
them. They haven’t been the right kind for him, because he doesn’t
really know much except office work, and you can’t get that very
easily without references, and Davy hasn’t any. He sends his letters
to Peaches. We were afraid the police might watch the mail, you see.
Still, they never tried to find him after he left here, so far as we
know, and maybe they’ll let it drop after a while.”
“It wouldn’t be safe for him to come home yet, then?”
Betty shook her head, yet hesitantly, and before she could reply Mrs.
Lyle returned from her visit along the street. After a few minutes
Barry went up to his room and seated himself at the walnut desk,
which, under Betty’s care, was regaining some of its youthful luster.
He didn’t feel in the mood for letter-writing, but this was the day for
it, and after several false starts he managed to finish two pages.
“I’ve about decided to give up football for this year,” he was writing,
when Peaches’ footsteps sounded on the stairs and then approached along
the hall. Barry had left his door open and Peaches entered.
“‘I am studying very hard,’” he dictated as he sank into a chair, “‘and
winning much praise from my dear teachers.’”
Barry laid down his pen and viewed him rather moodily.
“I guess it would be a good thing if I could say that,” he muttered.
“I’m studying hard, all right, but I haven’t heard much praise from my
dear teachers!” Then recollection of Betty’s astounding revelation came
to him and he looked Peaches over from head to toe, with new interest.
Peaches frowned and put a hand to his tie.
“What is it?” he asked anxiously. “Let’s know the worst. If it’s the
tie I’ll change it.”
“You’re Harrington Jones’s son, aren’t you?” said Barry.
Peaches nodded cautiously.
“What are you trying to do? Serve a summons on me?”
“Betty just told me,” answered Barry, darkly.
“Told you what?”
“That you were――are.”
“That I were what? I’m sorry, Barry, but I’m like this on Sundays,
after a hearty dinner: I’m not quick, you know. I have to have the
simplest things explained to me. You’d be surprised!”
“I was,” said Barry. “I thought you were――well, sort of poor. Now I
find you’ve got slathers of coin.”
“Not me,” said Peaches. “Dad has quite a roll, I believe, but I worry
along on a mere pittance. Still, anything up to three or four dollars――”
“I’m not trying to borrow money, you chump!” retorted Barry.
Peaches chuckled.
“Then why all the prologue? You’re wasting a mighty good introduction.”
“Why didn’t you tell me about your folks?” demanded Barry, sternly. “I
thought you were poor. I was talking about rich fellows a while back,
and saying perfectly insulting things, for all I remember, and you
just let me go on and never said a word about being one of them!”
Peaches shrugged.
“Why should I? If you had asked me I’d have confessed the dreadful
truth, but you didn’t. We both agreed that a fellow had no right to
take credit for his parents, didn’t we?”
“Well, but――oh, all right! Just the same, I felt a perfect ass when
Betty spoke about your folks being wealthy. I thought she was crazy.”
“How come I was the subject of discourse?”
“I forget. Oh! I asked where you were and――and we just got talking
about you. Betty was trying to tell me what a wonder you were and, of
course, I couldn’t see it.”
“Humph!” grunted Peaches. “I’d be ashamed to own up to such lack of
discernment. I don’t know where Betty got her idea, but I’m sure it’s
right.”
“Fishing!” laughed Barry. “Well, I’m not going to tell you. She did
say, though, you had been nice about that brother of hers. She told me
all about how you helped him get away too. Gee! if I wanted to go to
the police and tell what I know about you――”
“She hasn’t seen him?” asked Peaches, eagerly.
“Seen him?”
“Well, I thought maybe―― The fact is, he hasn’t written for nearly two
weeks, and I didn’t know but that he had shown up here. You know he
addresses his letters to me and I hand them over to his folks. He’s
crazy to come back here yet, though, I guess.”
“I don’t believe he has,” said Barry. “She didn’t say anything about
that, anyway. Say, where have you been since dinner? I wanted to see
you about something.”
“Oh, I stopped in to see Billy Bassett. What’s on your mind?”
“Well,” began Barry, slowly. Then he stopped and, after a moment, began
again: “I sort of wanted your advice, Peaches.”
Peaches nodded.
“I’m flattered, Barry. About which?”
“Football.”
Peaches looked dubious.
“Well, of course, Barry, football isn’t exactly a subject――”
“About resigning from the team, I mean. Do you think the Major
would――would be willing?”
CHAPTER XIV
BARRY SEEKS ADVICE
After a moment’s silence Peaches asked soberly: “What’s happened?”
Barry looked out of the window.
“I just decided I’d better quit,” he replied, elaborately casual. “It’s
pretty strenuous, for one thing; and then I’m not doing awfully well
with Latin and――well, I just thought it would be the wisest thing,
Peaches.”
“I see. And you want to know if Loring will let you do it, eh? Well, I
can tell you that he won’t. Not for any reason you’ve told me, Barry.”
Their eyes met. Barry’s fell and he shuffled his feet.
“I don’t see how he can make me play if I don’t want to,” he muttered.
“If you don’t want to play,” replied the other, dryly, “I don’t think
he will try to make you.”
“Well, then――”
“But the fact that Allen doesn’t want you to wouldn’t matter so much to
him.”
“Allen?” Barry tried to sound puzzled. “I didn’t say anything about
Clyde,” he protested.
“You don’t have to, young Ananias. I happen to have been in Billy
Bassett’s window when you came out of Dawson about an hour ago. So
you’d better come clean and tell me just what it’s all about.”
Barry considered a moment. Then he grinned sheepishly.
“Think you’re a regular Sherlock Holmes, don’t you?” he asked.
“Never mind about that,” returned the other, soberly. “Just tell me one
thing, Barry. Does Clyde know where you hid the body?”
“What do you mean?”
“You know well enough what I mean,” answered Peaches, viewing the
other severely. “He’s got something on you. I don’t have to be a
detec-a-tive to know that. You’re afraid to turn around without being
sure beforehand that Allen approves of it. I’m no more curious than the
next guy, but――gosh!――this has got my goat! I’ve been wanting for weeks
to ask you, only I didn’t have the nerve. Now you’ve got to come across
with the whole dastardly tale. What claim has Allen got on you?”
“I don’t suppose,” answered Barry, slowly, “you’d call it a claim
exactly. It’s only that――well, you see, Peaches, I’m under a big
obligation to him, and that’s why I kinda feel that it’s up to me
to――to oblige him when I can.”
“What sort of an obligation?” demanded Peaches.
“Well, he――he saved my life.”
“Saved your life!” Peaches whistled his surprise. “_Allen_ did? What do
you know about that? How did he do it, for Pete’s sake?”
“It was summer before last, in Maine. His folks and mine have cottages
at Orchard Bluff. We were in swimming one day and I got sort of far
out. The tide’s kind of tricky there sometimes. There’s a current
that sets along the beach and swings out around Frenchman’s Head. I
didn’t realize I was so far from the beach at first, and when I did and
started back I couldn’t make much headway. I guess I got sort of scared
and nervous, and probably I didn’t get much of a stroke. Anyway, I
wasn’t making shore at all; just going down toward the Head. Clyde and
two other chaps were there, near the beach, and Clyde happened to miss
me and saw what was happening. So he swam out and――and helped me in.”
“I see,” said Peaches. “Allen must be a good swimmer. Better than you,
is he?”
“Why, I don’t know. I――I guess we’re about alike. Only, you see, I was
more tired that time.”
“Couldn’t have kept afloat much longer? Ready to give up when he
arrived?”
“Oh, no, but――I know what you’re getting at, Peaches. Of course I
mightn’t have drowned. I might have floated and worked my way in around
the Head. But I _was_ sort of nervous, and when you’re nervous――”
“You get over it if you’re any kind of a swimmer. Come on, tell the
truth. If Allen hadn’t ‘rescued’ you you’d have got ashore farther
along the beach. Only, he thought he was saving your life and you
didn’t like to tell him he wasn’t. Isn’t that about it?”
Barry looked pathetically uncomfortable.
“Maybe he didn’t actually save me from drowning,” he acknowledged, “but
he did come to my rescue, and he _thought_ I was drowning, and it would
have been just the same if I had been!”
“Oh, I’m not trying to detract from Allen’s stunt. What he did was
plucky, all right. But the main point, if you’ll only see it, is that
he _didn’t_ save your life, no matter what he thinks; and if he didn’t
you certainly don’t owe him a blamed thing!”
“Well, but――don’t you see――”
“Of course I do! He thinks he rescued you from death and takes good
care you don’t forget it. And you were too soft-hearted to tell him
then and――you never have. But if I were you I’d get rid of the notion
that I owed my life to him. I’d use my own judgment about things
instead of his. And if I wanted to play football, I’d play football!”
Barry sat silent but unconvinced. Finally: “You said yourself I
couldn’t tell Clyde the――the truth,” he protested. “And he thinks I owe
him something, naturally, so I’ve just got to show some gratitude!”
“All right,” answered Peaches, grimly. “But you’re not going to get out
of football to please him, my bucko, and you may take my word for it.
If you go to Major Loring with any cock-and-bull story like you tried
on me I’ll see him myself and tell him the facts.”
“That’s not fair,” Barry protested.
“Fair enough for me. If it comes to that, no one’s being fair. Allen
isn’t, and that’s a cinch! And you’re not, if you let the team down now
when it needs you. No, sir! you tell Allen that there’s nothing doing.
I suppose he’s afraid some of his swell friends will give him the
raspberry if he doesn’t get on the team. I hope they do. He’s trying
to train with a lot of sap-heads, anyway. I know the bunch. I started
in with them the first year I was here. They made me so sick I had to
quit. It would be the best thing in the world for Allen if they gave
him the shake. And you might tell him that, too.”
“He didn’t used to be so――so――” Barry sought unsuccessfully for a word.
“He’s been ‘so――so’ ever since I first knew him,” said Peaches,
harshly. “He’s been trying to make ‘society’ here right along. He and
that side-kick of his, Stearns. Either of ’em would lick my boot if
I’d asked ’em home for a week-end!” Barry looked decidedly shocked and
shook his head in remonstrance. “Let me tell you something,” pursued
Peaches. “The day you landed here and I saw you were under Allen’s
thumb I made up my mind to――well, get you out. You seemed a decent chap
and worth saving. That’s why I sort of haunted you for a day or two. I
could see that you didn’t quite approve of me and wondered why I didn’t
mind my own business.”
“I didn’t, really!” said Barry, earnestly. “I mean I didn’t wonder.”
“Anyway, you were perfectly polite,” chuckled Peaches. “Not that it
would have mattered to me if you hadn’t been. I’d have persisted in
my――may I say crusade? There were times when I was discouraged. I
acknowledge it. There were times when it seemed that Allen’s――let’s
see――domination was too much for me. And then the Major kidnapped
you for football and I could see a rift in the clouds. Several times
after that you showed a disposition――oh, faint, I own!――to act on
your own initiative and think for yourself. I began to have hopes for
you, Barry; I really did. But now――well, now you’re trying to have a
relapse.”
“It was very nice of you to interest yourself in me,” said Barry,
rather stiffly. Apparently he had not heard much of the latter part of
the discourse. “I’m afraid you’ve been badly bored at times.”
Peaches regarded him questioningly. Then, however, he smiled.
“Oh, well, I see what you mean, Barry. But you’re quite mistaken, and I
guess you know it. If you must have it, Mister Hoity-Toity, I have long
since fallen victim to your manly charms and――er――sterling character.”
“Shut up!” growled Barry. But he grinned, too. Then, hurriedly: “That’s
all right,” he went on, “but what am I going to do? I told Clyde I’d
see the Major and try――try to resign!”
“See him, then,” said Peaches. “Only, my young friend, don’t lie to
him.”
Barry sighed. “I don’t want to lie, Peaches, only――well――gee!――what can
I say?”
Peaches shrugged.
“Tell him you’ve decided to quit. If he asks you why, say it’s none of
his business.”
“Thanks,” muttered Barry, with deep sarcasm. Then, after a moment’s
silence: “Look here; how’d you know Clyde wanted me to quit? I didn’t
tell you that.”
Peaches viewed him pityingly.
“By the simple process of putting a couple of twos together. For a
fortnight I’ve seen it coming. You’ve been traveling fast and Allen’s
been standing still. The whole school knows that Major Loring’s
training you for the big event. Allen having the strangle-hold on you
that he has, I knew it wouldn’t be long before he’d begin to use it.
I’ve been looking for your tongue to protrude for several days. A while
ago I saw you coming out of Dawson looking like a pinch-hitter who has
just struck out. Then you tell me that owing to the failure of the
Canadian wheat crop or something, you’ve decided to quit playing. I
may have a slanting forehead and a weak chin, Barry, but somewhere a
faint spark of intelligence still glows.”
“Well――well, will you come with me to see the Major?”
Peaches reflected. Then he nodded.
“Yes,” he assented, “I’ll do that much for you. You shall have my moral
support in your hour of tribulation. Shall we go now? I think we’ll
find him in. This is the hour of the day he sharpens his knives and
heats his jolly vat of oil for the entertainment of innocent youths
desiring to resign from the football team.”
“I thought maybe I’d see him this evening,” said Barry, a trifle
faintly.
“Never put off until evening what you can do in the afternoon,” replied
Peaches. “That has been my guiding rule through life and to its strict
observance I attribute much of my success.” He arose with what seemed
to his companion indecent eagerness. “Take one last look at the dear,
familiar scene, Barry, and let us be gone. ‘And so, whate’er befalls
me, I go where duty calls me! Farewell, farewe-e-e――’”
Peaches’ vocalization ended abruptly as he dodged the waste-basket.
CHAPTER XV
CLYDE LOSES HIS TEMPER
To Barry’s palpable disappointment, the Major was at home. He occupied
two rooms in Mr. Banks’s residence, directly across the road from
the school grounds, and Mrs. Banks, who answered the bell, smilingly
admitted the two boys and indicated the door on the left. Barry’s knock
was timorously soft, yet the ogre heard it, and called, “Come in!” with
a heartiness that brought to the mind of one of the visitors a vision
of boiling oil.
Major Loring had the front room and the one behind it, the latter
displaying through a broad arch a Spartan simplicity. In it there
were a cot bed covered with brown army blankets, a chiffonier, a
wash-stand, two chairs, and a trunk. But the front room was almost
luxurious, with a big couch and several deep leather-covered chairs, a
round mahogany table littered with books and papers and magazines and
smoking articles, some bookcases across one wall, and a cheerful rug
of golden-brown hues. Although the afternoon was far from cold, some
hickory chunks burned in the fireplace, and it was from an arm-chair in
front of the hearth that the host arose, book in one hand and pipe in
the other, to welcome the callers.
“Hello, you chaps!” he exclaimed. “Glad to see you. The more so as I
was bored stiff with this.” He tossed the book on the table and pulled
a chair toward the hearth. “Bring that other one along, Jones. Sit
down, Locke. That fire isn’t really needed to-day, but I’m sort of an
old granny about fires. I love to sit and toast my shins. Well, Jones,
how’s life treating you?”
“Almost as well as I deserve, sir.”
Major Loring chuckled.
“You leave me to draw my own conclusions, eh? Oh, well! I dare say you
aren’t getting many hard knocks. You look chipper enough. Of the two of
you I’d say Locke is the one who’s discovered a crumpled rose-leaf. No
ill effects from yesterday’s argument, I hope?”
“No, sir,” answered Barry, trying to smile as naturally as his
companion.
“That’s good. Did you see the game, Jones? Our chaps showed a little
more class, don’t you think? Oh, we’ve got some way to travel yet, but
it looks as if we’d got started! Locke, here, did a pretty good job,
by the way. There’s a fellow who told me only three weeks ago that he
didn’t care for football!”
The coach laughed and Barry managed to grin.
“I thought our team played pretty good football, sir,” said Peaches.
“Looks to me as if we’d round out all right by the end of the season.
Some of the new fellows are showing up pretty well, aren’t they?”
“Yes, they are. We’ve got a lot of clever substitutes, Jones; and, take
my word for it, nothing makes a coach feel more snug than plenty of
good second-string material. He has next year in mind as well as this,
you know. And the year after that, too. I’d like to keep twice as many
fellows going as I do, but there’d be no use in that, as I couldn’t
look after them. I’ll have some help after this week. Graham and Jonah
Mears are coming up to help out. Graham will take over the third squad
and give us some real practice games. You remember him, Jones. He was
here last fall.”
“Very well, sir. Little wiry chap. Mr. Mears, too, although he was up
only a few days, I think.”
“Yes, but he’s going to give us two full weeks this time. He’s a
corking good hand with the backs.”
The football talk continued. Barry, perched on the edge of a big chair,
listened, smiled perfunctorily when the Major glanced his way, and
wished himself back at home. How would he ever manage to do what he
had come to do? Football finally became exhausted as a topic and the
conversation turned to baseball and the Major and Peaches discussed
plans for the spring. The fire crackled and hissed softly and the
sunlight became ruddy outside the open windows. Finally Peaches looked
at his watch and, “Hello!” he said, glancing at Barry. “’Most six!
We’ll have to be traveling.”
Barry took a long breath.
“Major, I――” Perhaps he hadn’t really spoken out loud, for the Major
evidently hadn’t heard.
“Well,” the latter was saying, “I’m glad you dropped in, Jones. You,
too, Locke. Do it again, will you?”
“Major!” Barry jumped at the sound of his own voice, and the coach,
too, seemed startled. But Barry hurried on: “Major, I’ve been wondering
if I――if I wouldn’t be more use next year.”
“More use? Oh――to the team, you mean. Why, yes, I hope so, Locke.
Yes, you’re coming along very well. By next year you ought to be able
to give a pretty good account of yourself. But I rather think we’re
going to find use for you this year, my boy. If you keep coming at
your present speed you can count on at least one game at right half.
I told you when you joined up that I couldn’t promise you anything,
you’ll remember, so you mustn’t be disappointed if you don’t get into
all the games. You’re doing first rate, Locke, and I’m not forgetting
you. Don’t get discouraged just because things don’t come your way
all at once. You’re doing your share, even if you don’t get into the
front trenches very often. And you never know when the reserves will be
called up.”
The coach laid an encouraging hand on Barry’s shoulder. It didn’t seem
to Barry that the host exerted sufficient pressure to persuade him to
the door, yet that was where he found himself; with Peaches already on
the threshold, grinning widely. Barry gulped, sought for words in which
to frame his question, failed, and echoed Peaches’ “Good-by, sir.”
Then they were outside, the gate had closed behind them, and they were
striding down the road!
For several moments Barry looked straight ahead and the silence was
abysmal. Finally he stole a glance at Peaches. Peaches was as solemn
as a stone image, so solemn that Barry had the pleasing conviction
that it hurt. A dozen steps farther and a slight choking sound was
heard. Barry’s own lips twitched, but he didn’t turn. Not until, a
moment later, he found himself alone. A few paces behind, Peaches clung
saggingly to the trunk of a maple, helpless, his shoulders shaking
under the emotion that had overcome him. Barry stared indignantly for
as long as he could. He even managed an outraged “Huh!” But after that
he gave up.
Yet his amusement was less hearty than his companion’s and he recovered
first.
“You think it’s fu-funny,” he gasped. “I hope you ch-choke! What shall
I tell Clyde? Go-gosh! I can’t say I didn’t ask him!”
Peaches beat the air weakly a few times with his hands, opened his
mouth and closed it convulsively, and reminded Barry so much of a dying
fish that the latter mentioned the fact scathingly. Perhaps the insult
was just what Peaches needed, for after a final gurgle he regained the
power of speech.
“That――that was great!” he said, wiping his eyes. “The expression, on
your face, Barry, when he patted you on the back and told you not to
be――be discouraged! _Oh, gosh!_”
He was plainly threatened with a relapse, and Barry spoke sternly:
“Come on, you blithering idiot! Let’s get home. It’s all well enough
for you to laugh about it, but what am I going to tell Clyde?”
Peaches made a superhuman effort and controlled himself.
“Tell him,” he answered, “that you tried to hand in your resignation,
but the Major wouldn’t listen. That’s so near the truth that the
difference needn’t worry you. Goodness knows you _did_ try, Barry!”
“I’ll just have to tell him how it was,” said the other, resignedly.
“And he’ll say I didn’t try at all.”
“Tell him,” advised Peaches, impatiently, “to sit on a tack! You don’t
owe him a blamed thing, Barry; only you can’t seem to get it into your
bean. Why, in the name of common sense, _should_ you resign?”
“Well, we’ve been friends a long time, Peaches, and――and I’ve always
liked him. I know you don’t think much of him, but he’s really not half
as――as bad as you make out. It’s only since he came here that he’s
been acting so silly. It’s going to be a frightful disappointment to
him if he doesn’t make good on the team, and I hate like anything to be
the――the cause of it. I dare say that sounds foolish, but that’s the
way it is.”
“No, it doesn’t sound foolish,” replied Peaches, a grave, warm note
in his voice. “It sounds pretty fine, Barry. Only I rather wish Allen
would show himself half as white as you are. I’ll take your word for it
about him. I haven’t had a chance to know him very well. Anyway, I’ll
lay off him.”
“That part’s all right,” Barry responded. “I guess you haven’t said
anything about him that isn’t true. Anyway, when I like people,
what other people say about them doesn’t――doesn’t seem to make much
difference.”
“Are you feeling perfectly well?” asked Peaches, anxiously.
“Why?”
“Nothing, except that the good and noble usually die quite young,
Barry.”
* * * * *
Barry found that interview with Clyde extremely unpleasant. Clyde
showed incredulity and Hal Stearns expressed it.
“Tell it to Sweeney!” jeered Hal. “I’ll bet you haven’t been near the
Major!”
“If you don’t believe me,” answered Barry, warmly, “ask Crawford Jones.
He was with me!”
“Oh, he was, eh?” exclaimed Clyde. “He’d be a big help――I don’t think!
How’d you happen to lug him along?”
“Well, I just didn’t have the pluck to go there alone, Clyde. You know
Major Loring. He’s a corker, of course, but――but he can look awfully
fierce sometimes. And I knew I oughtn’t to ask what I was going to――”
“Yes, I guess you didn’t have much idea of asking, at any time,”
interrupted Clyde. “After all I’ve done for you, Barry, you might have
gone through with this, I’ll say!”
“I tried my best to,” said Barry. “Honest, I did, Clyde! He wouldn’t
have let me off, anyway. I’m sure of it.”
“Of course not,” agreed Hal, ironically. “Why, you’re the mainstay of
the team, Locke! Without you where’d we be, eh?”
“All right,” said Clyde, angrily. “But I’ll tell you one thing, Barry.
You aren’t going to double-cross me and get away with it. I’ll see that
you don’t last very long, kid. I’ll fix it somehow so you’ll wish
you’d kept out of this. You’ve got about as much chance to get into the
Hoskins game as――as――”
“As I have,” supplied Hal, bitterly.
Barry stared unbelievingly.
“Why, Clyde!” he faltered.
“Well, you heard me,” muttered Clyde. “I mean it, too. I wish to
goodness I’d let you drown that time, you little shrimp!”
“Clyde,” asked Barry, rather white now, “did it ever occur to you that
you might be taking too much credit for that――that rescue?”
“Just what do you mean?” asked the other, staring.
“I mean that if you had let me alone I’d have been perfectly safe. I’m
as good a swimmer as you, and you know perfectly well that you wouldn’t
have drowned that day if you’d been in my place. I’ve never said this
before――”
Clyde’s laughter broke in.
“No, and you’ve got a lot of cheek to be saying it now! You never have
shown much gratitude, but this is the limit! Did you hear that, Hal?
Why, he was ready to give up when I got to him! I didn’t save you from
drowning, eh? Like fun I didn’t! Queer it’s never occurred to you
before! I’ll bet your folks don’t think your way. Oh, you make me ill!”
“Sorry,” said Barry, dryly. “I tried to do what you wanted me to,
Clyde, and I couldn’t. I’m sorry about that, too. And I wish we hadn’t
quarreled.”
“Oh, go sell your papers!” sneered Clyde. “And don’t look to me for any
more help. I’m through. You don’t know the meaning of gratitude! Lying
about me saving your life! You’re――you’re sickening!”
So Barry closed the door behind him and went hurriedly downstairs and
out of the building, not very far from tears. But the frosty night air
worked an instant miracle. He shouldn’t have said what he had about
the life-saving incident. He hadn’t meant to. Of course Clyde hadn’t
believed him. He never would. Clyde had been unjust and had said
perfectly uncalled-for things, but he had been horribly disappointed,
and Hal had egged him on; and then he, Barry, had gone and made things
worse by saying that Clyde hadn’t saved his life!
By the time he reached the road Barry had thought up enough mitigating
circumstances to make Clyde’s conduct almost reasonable. He still felt
hurt, but of course Clyde hadn’t really meant all he had said and would
be sorry to-morrow. As for his threat of hurting Barry’s chances on
the team, why, that had been just talk. Clyde would never do anything
dirty; not even now, when he had changed so much from the Clyde that
Barry used to know.
Barry didn’t go into details in his report to Peaches. He just said
that Clyde had been disappointed and rather peeved. But Peaches,
discerning in the other’s countenance traces of a recent mental
disturbance, drew his own conclusions. All he said was:
“Well, that’s off your mind, Barry. Now you can buckle down and
give yourself unreservedly to the task of saving our dear old Alma
Mater――Heaven help her!”
CHAPTER XVI
MR. BENJY LOSES INTEREST
Barry awoke the next morning in a rather depressed mood, for which
the weather was not wholly to blame. Outside the window the rain was
pouring in torrents. The brick path to the gate was plastered with
drowned leaves, and in the narrow beds at each side the bare stalks
of the salvias arose from a tangle of withered nasturtium vines like
soldiers tottering in a last stand against the enemy. The little pits
from which Mrs. Lyle had lifted her geraniums had become muddy pools
against the surface of which the big drops splashed ceaselessly. The
gutters ran like mountain brooks, and, across the road, a spout at one
corner of the Anderson house poured a veritable Niagara upon the sodden
lawn below. In the dim gray light the falling water looked like liquid
silver.
Not a cheerful beginning for a new week, Barry reflected as he donned
a crackling slicker. A minute or two later, as from the shelter of the
porch he and Peaches viewed the drenched world, preparatory to the
dash to chapel, Peaches murmured: “Now I know exactly how the dove felt
when he left the ark!”
There was no outdoor practice for the football players that afternoon;
only an hour of what they called “bean-drill” in the half gloom of the
gymnasium. The chalk lines and emblems that Major Loring scrawled on
the blackboard were no more than gray under the rain-pelted skylights.
Barry was relieved, though not surprised, when Clyde nodded to him.
There wasn’t much warmth in that greeting, but, rightly or wrongly,
Barry detected a hint of apology in the brief glance that accompanied
it. He felt a little more cheerful after that, and would have spoken to
Clyde had the chance offered. But it didn’t.
He overtook Zo on the way back to the house, Zo swinging his
violin-case and whistling a football song gayly as he splashed through
the rain and the puddles. Recalling the recent attentions of Rusty
Waterman to the younger boy, Barry asked:
“How are you and Waterman getting on, Zo? Has he been bothering you
lately?”
“No, I don’t think he’s even noticed me since that time he tried to get
my violin.”
“Hardly polite, I’d say, but perhaps you don’t mind.”
Zo smiled his shy smile and shook his head.
“I’m perfectly satisfied,” he answered.
It was still raining Tuesday morning, but by noon it had stopped and
at half-past three the football squad was assembled on a soggy field.
There was no scrimmage that day. In fact, the session was cut almost in
half. Barry gained a lot of experience in the handling of a wet pigskin
and marveled at how heavy and erratic it could be when well saturated.
Passing Hal Stearns in pursuit of an escaped ball, Barry chose not to
see him, but Hal refused to be invisible.
“Well, how’s the great half-back to-day?” he called in tones of extreme
deference. Barry pretended deafness as well as blindness. He was ready
to forgive and forget where Clyde was concerned, but Hal had no claims
of friendship, and Barry, who had never succeeded in liking him, now
detested him heartily.
Later, returning to the bench, Barry saw Hal and Rusty Waterman with
heads close, and although they gave him but the shortest glance as
he approached, he was uncomfortably certain that he had been under
discussion. Clyde looked extremely morose that afternoon, and Barry’s
friendly “Hello!” received only a nod and a grunt. If, thought Barry,
Clyde had felt self-reproach the day before, he had quite recovered.
Clear skies and cold weather made practice snappy enough to satisfy
even the Major. Barry played right half-back on the second or
substitute squad, and, while he performed no remarkable deeds, got
along very well. Sometimes he yielded his head-guard to Noble and
sometimes to Clyde. His punting-drills had ceased now. He had made
excellent progress, and, save that he lacked the others’ experience,
and showed it, was kicking as well as Tip Cartright. Tip could still
beat him by an average of five yards, but Barry displayed an ability to
place his punts that made up for yardage.
The cold days and the rapid approach of the Big Game awoke the school
to its annual football enthusiasm. Success or failure in the battle
with Hoskins, now scarcely more than a fortnight distant, was the
universal subject of conversation. An epidemic of football songs burst
forth, and on Thursday night the first big mass meeting was held. As
the members of the squad were not encouraged by Major Loring to attend
these demonstrations Barry spent the evenings in Mill’s room, listening
to the radio. Disturbed by the faint strains of the football pæans
which floated in through a lowered window, Mill observed severely that
it was too bad decent folks couldn’t listen to a radio program without
having their fun spoiled by rowdies!
The Purple-and-Gray played Tollington High School on Saturday and gave
an excellent account of itself, winning by 27 to 6. Barry started the
final period and although only one punt was asked of him, played a good
game. He accounted for several gains outside tackles, one of seven
yards, and was quick and sure on defense. However, his performance was
undoubtedly due in part to the fact that the foe was pretty weary in
that last quarter!
Mr. Benjy didn’t take his usual afternoon ramble on Sunday afternoon.
The Monday before he had got thoroughly wet, walking to the station,
and had returned in the evening with a cold. It had remained with him
until Friday, getting neither better nor worse. But on Friday he had
left his work shortly after noon and crawled home to bed, a sick man.
The doctor called it congestion of the lungs and to Mr. Benjy’s dismay,
intimated that a prolonged vacation was in order. Saturday saw no
improvement, nor did Sunday. On Monday it was known to the boys that
Mr. Benjy was very ill indeed. The doctor came twice during the day
and again late that evening.
The house became very still, the boys tiptoeing up- and down-stairs and
about their rooms for fear of disturbing Mr. Benjy’s fitful slumbers.
Both Barry and Peaches offered their services, but Mrs. Lyle and Betty
were equal to the requirements, and beyond an occasional errand to the
village drug store there seemed nothing any one else could do. The
doctor remained encouraging. The patient did not have pneumonia, and,
while he was not responding to treatment as well as might have been
expected, there was no cause for immediate alarm. The trouble, as Betty
explained to Barry and Peaches, was that Mr. Benjy’s heart was weak;
“tired” the doctor called it; and most of the danger lay there.
“He’s sort of lost his grip, I think,” she added. “He doesn’t seem
to care now whether he gets well or not. And he troubles a good deal
about――things.”
“Davy?” asked Peaches.
Betty nodded.
“Yes, and the money he owes the factory people, and――and things like
that. When his fever is worst he wants to get up and go to work, and we
have a hard time quieting him. Last night it was the mortgage money.”
Betty smiled wanly. “You might as well know. Father has never yet been
able to pay wholly for this place, and now that he thinks――thinks he
isn’t going to get well, it worries him.”
“Is the interest due now?” asked Peaches.
“Not for days, but he’s sort of lost track and thinks it’s due, and he
doesn’t pay any attention when we tell him it isn’t.”
“He oughtn’t to be allowed to worry about that,” said Peaches. “You
ask your mother, Betty, to let me know when the payment is due and how
much it is. I’m kind of fond of Mr. Benjy, you know, and I’d like to do
some little thing besides bringing fruit he can’t eat and flowers he
probably doesn’t notice.”
“Oh, but he does!” exclaimed Betty. “He always notices everything, and
loves the flowers.”
“Well, you and your mother had better let me look after the mortgage
and things like that until he’s on his feet again,” continued Peaches,
persuasively. “She will have enough to think about, and so will you.”
“I’ll ask her,” replied Betty. “It’s dear of you to want to do it,
Peaches, but I’m afraid she won’t listen to it.”
“I don’t see why,” said Peaches, placidly. “I’m not trying to give the
money. I’m just loaning it until Mr. Benjy can pay it back.”
That was on Tuesday, and Wednesday afternoon Peaches came back from
school and found Betty and Toby on the porch. Betty looked rather
woebegone and her eyes were suspiciously red.
“She’s been crying,” Toby announced indignantly, viewing Peaches as
though he thought the latter to blame in the matter.
“I haven’t,” said Betty. “I mean I didn’t mean to.” She managed to
smile. “I guess I’m tired.”
“Been to school to-day?” asked Peaches, seating himself.
“No, I haven’t been since Monday. There’s so much to do here that I
thought I’d better not.”
“How is he to-day?”
Betty sighed.
“The doctor said this morning that he was ‘getting on,’ but goodness
knows what that means! He doesn’t seem any worse, and he slept a good
deal last night and this morning. But this afternoon he’s in such
low spirits that――that――” Tears threatened again and Betty left the
sentence unfinished. Toby shuffled his feet uncomfortably, glancing
from Betty to Peaches, seemed to decide that the situation no longer
demanded his presence, and betook himself upstairs, rather noisily
because of his desperate efforts to be quiet. Betty smiled again as he
disappeared.
“He was so funny,” she said, with a little sniff. “He came down to
the dining-room for a drink of water and found me there. Of course
he wanted to know what the trouble was――I was crying a little――and I
said, ‘Nothing, Toby,’ and he began walking around the table, looking
so fierce and muttering to himself! Then he stopped in front of me and
said:
“‘Nothing my blind aunt! You come along with me!’ Then he almost
dragged me out here and plumped me down and shook his finger at me.
‘You stop that!’ he said. ‘Stop this minute!’ Well, I was so surprised
that I did!”
“Sort of a cave-man comforter,” commented Peaches, with a grin. “I
suppose if you hadn’t stopped he’d have dropped a cunning little newt
or a couple of grasshoppers down your back.”
“He might have,” agreed Betty. Then, after a moment, she said: “I spoke
to Mamma about the mortgage, Peaches, and she didn’t make any objection
at all, but just said she was terribly much obliged. I’ll give you the
memoranda. It――it’s a good deal of money, though, Peaches; seventy
dollars. I don’t think you ought to do it.”
“I do, Betty. When’s it due?”
“Next Monday. If you haven’t got so much, I think Mr. Tanner would take
less if we explained how it was.”
“As a matter of fact, I haven’t got so much, but I’ve got some coming
to me and I’ll have it here in plenty of time. The next time Mr. Benjy
gets to worrying about that, you tell him it’s paid.”
“He hasn’t said so much about it the last day or two. It’s Davy he
talks of now. He――he wants to see him so badly, Peaches! I really
believe that if he could see him for a few minutes he’d try――he’d
_want_ to get well. And the doctor says that one reason he doesn’t is
just that he doesn’t care!”
“Well,” said Peaches, after a short silence, “if seeing Davy’s going to
get him well again, he’d better do it, hadn’t he?”
Betty’s eyes grew round.
“Peaches!” she whispered. “Do you think――”
Peaches shrugged.
“Might be some risk in it, of course, but if it was done right we ought
to get away with it. The main difficulty is that we don’t know where to
look for him, Betty.”
Betty sighed despondently.
“That’s so. His last letter said he was leaving town and didn’t say
where he was going. And letters take so long, too!”
“Yes, it couldn’t be done that way,” reflected Peaches. “Some one would
have to go and fetch him. What’s to-day? Wednesday, eh? To-morrow I
have English Lit. at ten-thirty and math, at two.” Peaches looked at
his watch. “Three-forty-six. There’s a train north at four-twenty. That
gives me thirty-five minutes to get permission from the office and
reach the station.”
“Peaches, you’re not going to――to――”
“Watch me!” said Peaches.
CHAPTER XVII
CLYDE APOLOGIZES
Practice was long and hard, that Wednesday afternoon, and Barry got
back to the house somewhat tuckered and discouraged. Things hadn’t
gone any too well with him during scrimmage. He had had an off day
and no mistake, he reflected. Reviewing events, he shook his head and
groaned. Having that kick blocked wasn’t so bad; that had been far less
his fault than it might have appeared, for center’s pass had been poor
and he had had to step to the left to reach it, delaying his kick by
an appreciable fraction of time; but when he had mixed his signals and
gone sky-hooting off around left end――Barry shook his head again as
he visualized Ike Boardman’s reproachful look. He wanted comfort, and
hoped Peaches was in his room.
But Peaches wasn’t, and not until he had entered his own room and found
a hastily scrawled note on the desk was the mystery explained. Peaches
had written in his perfectly abominable fist:
Off until to-morrow noon, Betty will explain. Keep mum.
Wondering, Barry set forth to look for Betty, but she was not in sight
below and he returned upstairs and knocked softly at Toby’s portal.
From beyond it came the tap-tap of a small typewriter, a recent
acquisition purchased, as Toby had gravely explained, to write labels
for his collection. From the sounds Barry gathered that Toby used
the two-finger method, and that to muffle the clatter he had taken
the instrument on his knees. A second knock was necessary to gain
permission to enter, and, as usual, when Barry opened the door he was
met with an impatient frown from the occupant.
“What’s it now?” demanded Toby, a finger poised above the keyboard.
“Gosh! can’t a fellow make a social call on you,” asked Barry, “without
becoming a――an object of suspicion? What’s the awful smell in here?”
Toby sniffed right, left, and ahead.
“I don’t smell anything,” he replied offendedly. “Maybe, though, it’s
chloroform; I was using some a while ago. But chloroform isn’t awful.”
“Been committing murder again? Say, do you know――I mean have you seen
Peaches?”
“Yes, I have,” answered Toby, aggrievedly, pounding the poised finger
home on an inoffensive key. “He came in here an hour ago and took all
the money I had!”
“Well, he probably needed it,” said Barry, soothingly. “Did he say
anything?”
“Well, you don’t suppose he sandbagged me, do you? Of course he said
anything! He asked me how much I had and I told him six dollars and he
said, ‘Good! I’ll take it!’ And――and I let him have it.”
“I mean,” said Barry, “he didn’t say what he wanted it for, did he?”
Toby shook his head.
“I didn’t think to ask him. That’s funny, isn’t it? Six dollars is a
good deal of money, too. Now, I wonder what he did want it for! Gee! I
wish I’d asked him!”
“You certainly should have,” Barry agreed soberly. “I’m not sure
Peaches is capable of handling such a vast sum.”
“You aren’t?” Toby looked startled. “Gee! what do you suppose――” Then
he saw the visitor’s lurking smile and grunted. “Aw, get out! I guess
he’s seen more money than that! Anyway――” and Toby chuckled――“I fooled
him. I had another dollar I didn’t tell him about!”
Barry didn’t get the explanation from Betty until after supper. Sitting
on the porch in spite of the chill of the frosty night, they talked
Peaches’ venture over. Betty wasn’t very hopeful. After a silence of
nearly two weeks, she said, Davy had written a few days before, from a
town in Massachusetts, that he had failed to find work and was leaving
the next day. She didn’t believe that Peaches would be able to trace
him.
“He will have to be back by to-morrow noon, Barry, or get into trouble,
because Mr. Puffer would let him off only until then. That won’t give
him much time for making inquiries and trying to find Davy, will it?”
“No, it doesn’t seem so. When will he get there? To the place your
brother wrote from, I mean.”
“I don’t know. There wasn’t time to talk much. He went right off to see
Mr. Puffer and stopped only a few minutes on the way back. It can’t be
far, though. I think he’s there by now, surely. If it just might happen
that Davy had changed his mind and hadn’t left there after all!”
“I don’t suppose we can count on that,” said Barry. “Just the same,
it’s a cinch that Peaches will find him if it’s possible to. He doesn’t
make much splash, but he gets there, Betty!”
“I don’t suppose we should have let him go,” said Betty. “Only it
all happened so suddenly that――that he was off before I could think!
There’s so little chance of his finding him, you see; and then it will
cost a good deal, too. And if he should find him and bring him back I’d
be scared to death. The police would be certain to see him or learn he
was here, and then things would be worse than ever.”
“I wouldn’t worry about that, Betty. Peaches will find a way to get
him here without his being seen, I guess. He could wait until night,
couldn’t he? Anyway, if it’s going to help Mr. Benjy it’s worth the
risk, I’d say.”
Mrs. Lyle called Betty, and, left alone, Barry pondered how to
spend the next hour or so. He missed Peaches――no mistake! Toby’s
companionship offered little enticement. Nor did Mill’s, for these days
Mill put the entire burden of entertainment on the radio. In the end he
made up his mind to go to see Clyde!
His courage almost but not quite left him before he reached the partly
open door of Number 42 Dawson. From within came a medley of voices and
his knock produced several loud invitations to enter. When he did so,
Clyde looked surprised and flustered. Jake Greenwalk and Goof Ellingham
stared in a bored manner and Hal Stearns’s expression was of mingled
incredulity and hostility. Clyde, though, didn’t let the silence grow
awkward.
“Hello!” he exclaimed in friendly tones. “Come on in, youngster. You
know these ducks, don’t you?”
Jake and Goof greeted him affably enough, possibly taking their cue
from the host. If Hal uttered any greeting Barry didn’t hear it.
Barry found a seat and replied to Clyde’s inquiries as to his recent
activities, the news from home, and so on, and then the interrupted
conversation went on again.
The new-comer listened in silence for a while. Major Loring, it
appeared, was conducting the Broadmoor football team straight down the
path to destruction. The principal exponents of this theme were Clyde
and Hal, but Goof tacitly agreed with them. The assistant coaches were
a couple of “false alarms” and were balling things up in such a fashion
that a guy didn’t know what to do any more. They were still going
strong when Jake Greenwalk cut in with:
“What do you think about it, Locke? Haven’t heard your hammer yet.”
“Oh, Locke’s subsidized,” laughed Goof, not offensively, however. “You
mustn’t expect a frank opinion from him.”
“Gosh, no!” sneered Hal. “He’s teacher’s little pet.”
“Don’t get nasty,” said Jake.
“Why,” answered Barry, quietly, “I’m new here yet and probably haven’t
any right to an opinion. But if you really want it, it’s this,
Greenwalk: I think the Major and Graham and Mears are doing a pretty
good job.”
“You surprise me!” said Hal. “Think of that!”
“Well, you haven’t much to complain of,” remarked Clyde, dryly. “You’d
be a chump to kick, I’ll say.”
Goof and Jake went off after a minute or two and Barry said:
“You chaps will want to do some studying, so I’ll wander.”
“Don’t say ‘want to,’” Clyde objected, accompanying him to the door.
Hal had already picked up a book and was ostentatiously unregardful of
the guest’s departure. “Well, drop in again,” said Clyde, nervously
perfunctory at the threshold. Barry turned and looked at him
straightly.
“Does that mean that you want me to, Clyde?” he asked.
“Why, sure!” Clyde accompanied the reply with a short laugh and his
eyes fell before Barry’s gaze. Nevertheless he stepped after the other
into the hall, and once past the door he added in a lowered voice:
“Say, don’t think too much about the other day, Barry. You know how it
is when a fellow gets peeved.” He tried to speak carelessly, but Barry
was certain that he detected a ring of sincerity underneath.
“That’s all right, Clyde,” he answered eagerly. “Let’s forget!”
The other nodded and turned hurriedly back.
“So long,” he called.
It wasn’t much of an apology, Barry reflected on his way home, but it
was a good deal from Clyde. He wondered if it was too late to try again
to get out of football. To-night he felt courageous enough to face two
or three Major Lorings! But sober thought told him that the die was
cast and that nothing he could do now would aid Clyde’s ambitions.
When he awoke in the morning it was not to Betty’s cheerful announcement
of “Hot water, Barry!” but to the ungentle proddings of Peaches. Barry
viewed the intruder sleepily and vaguely inquired, “What time’s it?”
“Ten minutes to seven, sluggard,” replied Peaches, securing a less
precarious seat on the edge of the bed. “Get up and hear the birdies
sing!” Barry’s mind cleared itself of the mists of slumber and he
opened his eyes wide.
“Where――when――” he exclaimed.
“Five minutes ago,” answered Peaches, grinning.
Barry sat up suddenly and sank his voice.
“Did you find him?” he asked anxiously.
For reply Peaches slowly lowered his left eyelid.
CHAPTER XVIII
UNDER COVER
Peaches told his story while Barry dressed.
“I’d like to lay stress on my superior intelligence,” he said, “but
truth compels me to acknowledge, Barry, that luck had a lot to do with
it. I got to Randall Falls about seven-fifteen and went to the hotel
Davy had written from. His name was on the register and the clerk
said he had left three days ago――no, this is Thursday; four days ago
now――but didn’t know where he’d gone. But he got his memory working and
remembered that Davy had left about half-past seven in the morning, and
with that to go on I beat it back to the station and looked up trains.
“Well, there was one going east at seven-forty-six, and I concluded
that was the one Davy had aimed at, especially as there weren’t any
others for nearly an hour on either side of seven-thirty. The first
real town on the line was Springfield and I guessed Davy had made for
there. Of course he might not be there then, but I had to take a chance
on that. And, of course, he might have gone straight on to Worcester
or some other place beyond that.
“Anyhow, I tried Springfield. I had to wait nearly two hours for a
train and it was nearly ten o’clock when I got there. I got a taxi at
the station and told the driver what I was up to. Davy wasn’t stopping
at the big hotels, I knew, and so we began on the cheaper ones.
Well――and here’s where luck took a hand――we found him at the first one
we tried, a place only a couple of blocks from the station. He was
asleep, but I got him up and told him what was wanted and he was all
for starting for home then and there. But that was no good, for I’d
looked up the trains. We talked for more than an hour and then he went
to sleep again and I took a nap on a chair, with my feet on the bed. I
got going at a little after four, got a night train as far as Randall
Falls, and finished by car.”
“Davy came with you?”
“No, we thought we’d better not chance getting here in broad daylight,
even as early as six-thirty. Besides, he’d got a job a couple of
days before and didn’t want to leave without explaining things. He’s
coming down this evening as far as Hale’s Bridge. He will get there
at eight-thirty. I’ll be waiting in a car and bring him over. He
figures he can stay around to-morrow by keeping quiet and go back in
the evening. Of course it’s taking a chance, but no one knows about him
except just us here, and I guess we can get away with it.”
“Of course. Have you seen Betty?”
“Yes, for a minute. She thinks they’d better not say anything to Mr.
Benjy yet. At least not until the doctor comes. He might get sort of
excited and restless. She says he slept better last night than he has
for a week. Gee! I hope the poor old chap comes around all right! He’s
mighty decent. Since he’s been sick I’ve wished a lot of times I’d been
nicer about listening to his stuff.”
“I’m mighty glad you found Davy,” said the other. “Betty thinks he will
be better for Mr. Benjy than the medicine.”
“Hope so. Davy’s changed a lot. I guess he’s been up against some hard
times, judging from his looks. But he’s got a lot more gumption than he
used to have. Fact is, he was just a bit dumb when he was here. Oh, not
stupid, of course, but――well, sort of slow. Having to fend for himself
has sure put an edge on him!” Peaches ended with a cavernous yawn.
There was another strenuous afternoon on the gridiron that day, the
last before Saturday’s contest with the Springfield junior team, and
Barry didn’t get back to the Lyles’ until dark. Peaches was awaiting
him there.
“I’ve been thinking,” he announced, following Barry into the latter’s
room.
“Any ill effects?” asked Barry, sinking into a chair.
“What’s the matter with your cheek? I refer to the side of your face,
not to your――er――impertinence.”
“Some one placed his shoes there. I think it was that Rusty Waterman.
Anyhow, he was grinning.”
“Better put something on it,” advised Peaches. “Say, I’ve been――I mean
I’ve got an idea. (Now cut out the low humor.) I’ve been and arranged
for a sea-going Ford for this evening and it’s to pick us up at the
corner of State and Jewell Streets at quarter past eight.”
“Us?” asked Barry.
“Yes――that’s the idea I referred to. It might look funny if I set out
alone, in case any one did see me, but if we both went no one would
think much about it. Get it?”
“I suppose so. I’m too blamed tired to follow the――the intricacies of
your――your reasoning, Peaches.”
“That’s all right. You leave the reasoning to me, old scout, and just
obey orders. First thing, put something on that messy-looking cheek if
you don’t want it to be sore.”
“It’s sore already, you coot! Waterman, or whoever it was, shakes a
mean shoe!” Nevertheless Barry applied witch-hazel to the abrasion.
“They told Mr. Benjy that Davy was coming,” said Peaches. “The doctor
said it wouldn’t do any harm. He’s as excited as the dickens, Betty
says, but he’s all chirped up, too, so I guess that’s all right. Gee! I
hope nothing happens to keep Davy from getting here!”
Barry felt like a conspirator when he and Peaches started for the
village about eight o’clock. Peaches insisted that they take it
slowly and appear to be out for a stroll, and he made Barry pause at
almost every window they passed and stare for long moments at the
uninteresting displays therein. The Wessex police force was popularly
supposed to consist of one member, but as a matter of fact it contained
three, and one of the three was on duty at State and Elm Streets,
directing traffic.
To be sure, the traffic was not excessive and the officer stood not in
the middle of the junction of the two thoroughfares but on the curb,
where he was usually companioned by several of the town’s citizens who
appeared to have no home ties. Barry thought the policeman viewed him
and Peaches with marked interest as they loitered past on the opposite
sidewalk, but Peaches said it was only the imagination of a guilty
conscience that gave him the impression. Two blocks farther on, where
the town’s residences gave place to empty lots, a small car stood
directly under an electric light.
“The gold-plated, ivory-mounted dumb-bell!” muttered the leader of the
expedition, disgustedly. “It’s a wonder he doesn’t set off rockets, for
fear some one mightn’t see him!”
Peaches gave directions to the dozing driver and the car lurched out
of a ditch and set off northward. After a few minutes the road picked
up the railway tracks and for the rest of the nine-mile journey kept
them company. They rattled sedately into Hale’s Bridge ahead of time
and came to a stop in the shadow of the freight-house a few rods short
of the station. The town was a small place, with scarcely more than a
dozen buildings in sight. A few street lights punctured the darkness at
long intervals and these were presently dimmed by the white radiance
of an engine’s headlight as the south-bound express rolled noisily out
of the night. The driver of the Ford started his motor, and presently
from the direction of the station a figure approached.
“All right, Davy,” called Peaches, softly. The traveler deposited his
bag in the back of the car and took the place vacated by Barry, who had
moved to a seat beside the driver. The lights switched on and the Ford
made a perilous turn and headed homeward. A tap on the shoulder caused
Barry to turn his head.
[Illustration: “ALL RIGHT, DAVY,” CALLED PEACHES, SOFTLY]
“I want you to meet Davy Lyle,” Peaches was saying. Barry managed to
reach the hand extended to him and felt a hard, firm grasp on it.
He couldn’t see much of Davy,――just a blurred countenance in the
dimness,――but the slightly high-pitched voice that acknowledged the
introduction was pleasant.
The couple in the back talked all the way, but what they said wasn’t
audible to Barry, above the noise of the car. Just short of Wessex a
stop was made and Barry crowded into the back seat, Davy disappearing
from sight to sit on the floor and hug his knees for the journey
through the center of the village. A few minutes later the car stopped
once more, this time opposite the lane that led to Brazer’s Farm,
Peaches transferred some money to the driver, and, while the conveyance
went on along the road, the passengers made their way back to the Lyle
house. Peaches and Barry entered by the front gate, but Davy jumped
over the fence and disappeared through the shadows toward the back of
the house.
“So far, so good,” murmured Peaches, sitting down on the top step. “How
do you like the criminal life, Barry?”
“How do you mean criminal? We haven’t done anything criminal!”
“No, we haven’t, I guess, but blowed if I don’t feel as if we had! I’d
sort of like to see into Mr. Benjy’s room right now. I’ll bet the old
gentleman’s happy; what?”
The Ford rattled wildly past on its way back to town. Peaches followed
it with his gaze until its twinkling tail-light had disappeared. Then:
“I swore that guy to secrecy, and I guess he’s all right,” he said
thoughtfully, “but if he forgets and goes to talking―― Hang it, I
don’t believe I’d be much of a success as a criminal, after all! I’ve
certainly gone and left a swell clue behind me!”
“Think that fellow recognized Davy?” asked Barry.
“No, and I don’t suppose he ever saw him before, anyway. Davy probably
didn’t ride in taxicabs much when he was here. Still, it was a fool
thing to do, and I recognize that fact now that it’s too late.
But――hang it!――I had to get a car somewhere. He couldn’t have found one
in Hale’s Bridge; that’s a cinch!”
“Oh, well, he will be gone by to-morrow night,” replied the other,
reassuringly. “No use worrying, I guess.”
Footsteps sounded behind them and Betty came out and seated herself
beside Barry. Both boys looked at her inquiringly. After a moment Betty
said in a queerly hushed voice:
“He’s awfully different, Peaches, isn’t he?”
“Davy? Yes, he sure is, but I like it, Betty. He’s older and has a lot
more pep. As I said to Barry, I guess having to make your own way does
that to a chap. How did Mr. Benjy――er――”
“He’s as happy as anything,” said Betty. “He’s holding Davy’s hand and
smiling at him. He hasn’t said much. I suppose he’s too glad. Oh, I do
wish there wasn’t this――this thing to spoil it!” Betty dabbed at her
eyes with a tiny wad of handkerchief and Peaches patted her shoulder.
“Don’t you worry,” he said. “Everything will come out all right after
a while. Davy’s got a corking good job at last, he tells me, and will
be making real money. These folks here are bound to forget their
grouch pretty soon, and then Davy can come home for week-ends and――and
everything will be pie!”
“That would be nice,” murmured Betty. Then, more briskly: “Speaking of
money, Peaches, I want you to keep account of every cent you’ve spent
and――”
“Got it all down, to a penny,” replied Peaches, cheerfully. “Don’t
worry about that, Betty. What you’d better do is go over my expense
account pretty carefully when I present it. Jumpin’ Jupiter! That
reminds me that I’ve got a letter to write. Guess I’d better tear
myself away and attend to it. You know where to find me if anything’s
needed, Betty.”
They all went in, Barry rubbing chilled hands together as he bade Betty
good night and followed Peaches upstairs. Peaches had paused outside
Toby Nott’s door and was counting a small roll of bills.
“Eight, nine―― Got enough to pay my debts, I guess.” He knocked and a
voice responded, “Yeah! Who is it?”
“In bed, Toby? It’s Jones.”
“What you want?”
“Just want to pay you back that six dollars,” answered Peaches, winking
at Barry.
“Come in!” called Toby, animatedly.
Toby was in bed, sure enough, but he appeared to have no present
interest in sleep. He had both his pillows behind him and an electric
drop over his tousled head. There was a large, serious-looking volume
on his knees and on a chair beside him sat Antonio, tethered by one
hind leg and staring raptly at the electric bulb. Antonio looked
indecently large and gross, as though the sybaritic life he had been
leading had somehow coarsened his nature. He paid no attention to the
visitors, but continued his basilisk contemplation of the light.
“A touching picture of domestic felicity,” observed Peaches. “Might be
entitled ‘Pals’ or――or――”
“‘Toby and Tony,’” offered Barry.
“Or ‘Two souls with but a Single Croak’ or something. What’s he doing,
Toby? Trying to hypnotize you?”
“He isn’t looking at me,” answered Toby, with dignity. “He’s looking at
the light. One night there was a mosquito up there.”
“And he hasn’t forgotten? Marvelous example of brute intelligence!
He’s a patient animal, isn’t he? Does he――er――stay there all night and
guard your couch? Now, what was it Professor N. B. Brown said about――”
“Give me my six dollars and get out of here!” growled Toby,
threateningly raising the ponderous book on his knees. “Say, what did
you want that for, anyway? And, say, where were you last night? Why――”
“Here’s your money, old son, and many thanks. Better put it where it’ll
be safe, for I may want to borrow it again some day. You’ll observe
that it’s all in greenbacks, Toby. Thoughtful of me; what?”
“How do you mean greenbacks?” asked Toby, suspiciously.
“Why, greenbacks――frogs―― Oh, what’s the use? Come on, Barry!”
“His back’s not green!” Toby’s triumphant voice pursued them past the
closed portal. “It’s brown!”
There was fine news of Mr. Benjy, the next morning. Whether or not
because of Davy’s coming, he had slept almost all night and was asking
for breakfast, Betty informed the boys. And he seemed quite like
himself and declared that he would be going back to the office the
following day.
Barry’s hope of getting into the Springfield game was diminished
that Friday afternoon. It was the custom to excuse those who were to
be called on in the Saturday game from anything save the lightest
practice, and Barry was not one of the favored. While he did not take
part in the brief scrimmage between two patched-up teams that ended the
session, he worked out with Ike Boardman’s squad during signal-practice
and did a lot of punting. All of which signified that the Major was not
considering him as a serious contender against Springfield.
Clyde was almost like the old Clyde that afternoon, and seemed anxious
to have Barry forget what had occurred in Number 42 a few nights
before. He didn’t refer to that occasion, but he left Hal Stearns and
Goof Ellingham once, to squeeze in beside Barry on the bench, and
evidently tried hard to be agreeable. Barry went back to the Lyles’
through the dusk of a cold November evening, feeling very happy over
Clyde’s affability and just a little disappointed because he was not to
have any generous part in the morrow’s game. Of course the Major might
use him before the fracas was done, but Barry, who had by now become an
enthusiastic player, wanted action and lots of it!
On their way to supper Peaches confided to Barry that Davy had become
obstreperous and was going to stay until Monday.
“I tried to tell him that it was mighty risky,” said Peaches, “but he
wouldn’t see it. He said that if any one had learned of his presence in
the old home town they’d have been after him before this. Well, maybe
that’s so, too. But, just the same, he’s taking a chance.”
“I’ll bet the police have forgotten all about him,” said Barry. “It’s
almost a year, isn’t it?”
“Don’t you believe it! The big squeeze, Martin――he’s the chief, or
whatever they call it here――was sort of peeved when Davy gave him the
slip, and I guess he’d be awfully glad to get him.”
“Well, if he doesn’t show himself,” said Barry, “no one’s going to
suspect he’s around. How is Mr. Benjy to-day?”
“Great! The doctor says he’s going to get well fast. I guess Davy was
good medicine for him.”
“I guess so. That was a bright idea of yours, Peaches――fetching him
back, I mean. You do have an occasional clever thought, don’t you?”
“Glad you realize it. I had another one, too, which was to get the
interest on the mortgage paid. Come to think of it, I don’t see what
the community would do without me!”
“Have you paid it, though?”
“Not yet, because I haven’t heard from home. But I’ll get the
wherewithal to-morrow. Would you mind getting a move on? I’m pretty
near starved!”
There was a large and enthusiastic mass meeting that evening. After it
was over the fellows formed outside and a wildly cheering procession
made the round of the buildings, and finally, after Doctor Clode had
responded to demands for a speech, ended up in front of the Banks
residence and cheered the Major until he appeared and acknowledged the
applause. Neither Barry nor Peaches attended the meeting, but sounds of
the ensuing demonstration took them over to the campus and they shouted
and sang as loudly as any. Returning home, shortly before ten, Peaches
clutched Barry’s arm just short of the house.
“Look ahead,” he said softly. “Beyond the light there. See anything?”
Barry looked and finally assented.
“Some one standing in the shadow,” he whispered. “Who is it? What’s he
want?”
“Don’t know,” answered Peaches. “Let’s see what he does.”
They went on toward the gate, and as they did so the figure retreated,
finally disappearing utterly in the pocket of darkness beyond the
nearest lamp.
“Thought so,” muttered Peaches. “I’ll bet that taxicab guy spilled the
beans. Gosh! I wish Davy had beat it when he had the chance!”
CHAPTER XIX
THE NEW TYPEWRITER
Peaches went toward the back of the house, while Barry ascended the
stairs. It was fully five minutes later when the murmur of voices in
the dining-room ceased and Peaches came up. The two boys went into his
darkened room and peered cautiously from the window that overlooked the
road in the direction of town. Once they were certain they discerned
the watching form about thirty yards away, where the gloom was deepest,
but when they looked again it had either disappeared or merged with the
shadows.
After a few moments of further staring into the night they withdrew
and Peaches lighted up, drawing the curtains. Barry approved the
latter act, for he had begun to feel sort of shivery. They talked the
situation over, in voices unconsciously lowered. Peaches said that Davy
wasn’t going to try to get away to-night, that probably it was best not
to.
“If that fellow down there is really watching the house,――and I guess
there’s no doubt about that,――he’s likely to keep on watching most
of the night. He would know that if Davy is here he wouldn’t try to
get off until midnight or later. What I can’t make out is why the cop
doesn’t come in and have a look.”
“Maybe,” suggested Barry, “they aren’t certain. Maybe they’ve just
heard enough to make them suspicious. You have to have a warrant to
search a house, don’t you?”
“I guess you do. Well, I’m going to bed, and you’d better do likewise,
old-timer.”
In the morning Barry’s first act was to hurry across to Peaches’
room and look anxiously from the side window. The street was utterly
deserted, and, in the bright sunlight, it was easy enough to believe in
the innocence of the lurking form of the night before.
The Springfield game was dull and one-sided. Again Barry saw service
in the final episode and was called on for six punts. The Major used
nearly every second- and third-string player before, at last, the
contest ended with the score 33 to 0. Followed much rejoicing until
news came that Hoskins had defeated Peebles, 22 to 3. Recalling that
Peebles had humbled Broadmoor by a score of 21 to 3, the rejoicers
ceased rejoicing and amazedly considered the fact that, if figures
didn’t lie, Hoskins was at that moment exactly thirty-seven points
better than Broadmoor!
Monday saw the beginning of secret practice on the field and the
institution of evening sessions in the gymnasium, and Wednesday
witnessed the hardest practice of the season. Not until the lights had
begun to appear in the windows on the campus were the players released.
Barry was far too tired to hurry through his shower and his dressing,
and the locker-room was almost empty when he left it. To his surprise,
Clyde was waiting outside on the steps, and joined him.
“Some drive,” he said.
Barry agreed and, accommodating his step to Clyde’s, headed toward
Dawson.
“You got quite a send-off in the paper this morning,” said Clyde, after
a pause. “See it?”
Barry hadn’t seen it.
“Well, I saved it for you. It’s in the room. Short Higgins is
corresponding here, and he has half a column of dope. Calls you
‘Broadmoor’s punting ace,’ and if Hoskins believes what he says they’ll
probably lay for you and try to put you out, Barry. It seems to me
Higgins hasn’t done us any favor by boosting you as a kicker. I’d like
to know what the Major thinks of it. What’s the sense of advertising
the fact that we’ve got a punter? Much better keep quiet about it, I
think, and surprise the enemy if we can.”
“I heard,” said Barry, “that the Major always read what the newspaper
correspondents sent out.”
“Well, that’s what I thought. If he read that stuff of Short’s, he must
have been in a hurry. Unless――” Clyde hesitated an instant―― “unless he
wants Hoskins to know! By Jove, Barry! he might! The Major’s awfully
foxy.”
Barry considered that theory while he followed Clyde upstairs in
Dawson, but he failed to see any advantage to be gained by the
publicity. Clyde turned on the lights and produced the city paper of
that date, opened to the sport page. Barry read the article through.
Higgins had gone exhaustively into the capabilities of the Broadmoor
players, discussing them individually at some length. The reference to
himself Barry found almost embarrassingly flattering. He was credited
with having punted fifty-five yards,――which was true to the extent of
one lucky performance in practice,――with being an exceptionally fast
and clever runner, and with being the outstanding discovery of the
football season at Broadmoor.
Also, although the fact was not distinctly stated, the writer managed
to give the impression that the young “punting ace” was being kept
under cover. Barry went through the article a second time. It was just
as he had thought. Higgins had discussed perhaps twenty players, but
only in the case of Barry Locke had he let himself go. Nothing had been
told of the others that would reach the rival camp as fresh news! He
laid the paper down, with a puzzled look at Clyde.
“That reads sort of――sort of funny,” he said.
Clyde nodded.
“It certainly does. I don’t get it, Barry. Either Higgins got that past
without the Major seeing it or the Major tipped Higgins off to write it
that way. And if it was the last, what’s the big idea? Every one says
we’re certain to play a punting game through at least one half, and
if we do he will have to use you. Tip Cartright can’t do it all; and,
anyway, you’re better than he is, now.”
They discussed the puzzle for several minutes without arriving at a
solution. Then, partly because it was growing late and partly because
he wanted to get away before Hal Stearns came in, Barry pocketed the
paper at Clyde’s invitation and arose. As he did so his eyes lighted on
a small black case on the big table.
“Hello!” he said. “You’ve got one of those, too, haven’t you?”
Clyde nodded, lifting the cover of the small typewriter and idly
jabbing at a key.
“Yes, a fellow named Whitwell is selling them around school and I
thought I’d help him along. Besides, some of the faculty give you
better marks, they say, if you turn in your stuff typewritten. Pretty
good little contraptions, too. Want to try it?”
Barry picked out his name on the keys and Clyde rolled the result into
view. The effort hadn’t been very successful, for Barry had forgotten
in one place to use the shift, and had evidently struck the wrong key
on two occasions. Also, the capital B was not aligned with the other
letters. The result was this:
John Bsrry lockw
“Gee! I’d almost forgotten about the John,” commented Clyde. “Guess
I’ll call you Jack for a change.”
“If you do,” answered Barry, “I’ll call you Fletcher――no, Fletch. That
sounds like a side of bacon. Say, what’s the matter with that B? Looks
as if it felt it was more important than the other letters!”
“Gee! I don’t know! It always does that. Maybe that thingumbob is bent.
I’ll have to get Whitwell to look at it. Well, don’t get a swelled head
over that newspaper stuff, youngster. See you to-morrow.”
Barry didn’t allow the article to increase the size of his cranium, but
he did clip it very carefully and put it away with other and similar
treasures. Also he showed it first to Peaches, and Peaches began
calling him “Ace” and pretending a new and impressive deference. But
even Peaches couldn’t explain why Higgins had been allowed to get that
paragraph past the censor! They were still discussing the matter that
evening in Barry’s room when footsteps came along the hall and Toby, as
ever disdaining to knock, burst enthusiastically in on them, one hand
extended before him and his eyes glowing behind his enormous spectacles.
“Say, fellows, look here, will you? Say, look at this for a beauty! He
was outside the window and didn’t say ‘Boo!’ when I picked him off.
Lookut!”
Toby thrust the prize under Barry’s eyes and Peaches got up to look,
too. It was a medium-sized moth, its upper wings of pale yellow with
black tracery and its lower ones of pinky red――they, too, marked with
black. It certainly was a beautiful thing, and both Barry and Peaches
admired it in a fashion to satisfy its captor. Peaches wanted to know
the name of it, but Toby shook his head.
“Golly! I don’t know,” he answered regretfully. “I’ve never seen one
like it before. I’m going to look it up at the library to-morrow. Ain’t
it a corker?”
“Wonderful, Toby,” assented Peaches. “Is he dead?”
“No, I guess he’s just kind of chilled.” Toby touched the moth gently
and it stirred in lazy protest, stretching its upper wings a little
wider. Then, as if to make the protest more emphatic, it fluttered
out of Toby’s palm and settled on the blue blotting-pad on the desk.
“Don’t touch him!” warned Toby in agonized tones. “You might tear his
wings.” He reached a stealthy finger down and tried to persuade the
moth to crawl upon it, but the invitation was refused. There was a
sudden fluttering of pale yellow-and-red wings and the moth careened
agitatedly about their heads, dipped swiftly, and mysteriously
disappeared.
“Well, where the dickens――!” exclaimed Peaches.
“He went into that drawer!” declared Toby. “There he is! I see him!”
Barry drew the top drawer of the desk farther out and Toby, peering
excitedly in, made a grab among the papers and various articles there,
but missed the moth.
“Better take the drawer out,” suggested Peaches. “Although, for my
part, I hope he gets away from you!”
Barry placed the drawer upon the desk and carefully lifted the contents
out, while Toby stood by waiting to pounce. But the moth wasn’t there.
“He’s in the next one,” said Toby. “He flew out over the back, I guess.
Let me look, Barry, will you? Gee! I don’t want to lose him!”
Barry, who had been seated, arose and Toby took over the search. One
by one, very cautiously, he took out the four drawers and went through
them while the others looked on and offered encouraging advice. Foiled,
Toby squatted, and stared into the dim depths of the cubby that had
held the drawers. “Got a match?” he demanded feverishly.
Instead of a match, Barry offered a pocket torch and Toby got to his
knees and continued the hunt. At that moment the doorbell tinkled and
the boys heard Betty responding to the summons. Toby’s antics had
rather palled by now and both Barry and Peaches lent their attention
to the voices at the front door. For a week a ring at the doorbell
had sent their thoughts to the subject of police. Consequently Toby’s
grunts and remarks, somewhat smothered because he had introduced his
head into the recess, went unheeded.
“Gee! he ain’t here!” said Toby, mournfully. “Not unless he――Ugh!
Gosh!――Maybe there’s a crack―― Say, here’s something stuck up here in
a splinter, Barry.” Receiving no response, Toby dropped the something
behind him into the nearer drawer and went on with his muttering: “Gee!
I’ll bet I’ve lost him!” There was a loud sneeze, followed by a sharp
_bang_ as Toby’s head came in contact with a crossbar. “Ow!” cried the
explorer in an agonized voice. “Say, there’s more dust in here――”
“Shut up, Toby!” warned Peaches, peremptorily. There were firm
footsteps in the hall and then Betty knocked and said, “Barry, Major
Loring is here!”
After a minute Peaches dragged Toby with him out of the room, Toby
going most unwillingly and with many backward glances.
“Say, Barry, if you find him don’t try to get him, will you? Let me
know, will you? I want――”
“Shut up, and say good night!” hissed Peaches.
“Yeah,” responded Toby confusedly. “Good night.”
Then the door closed and the Major, slightly amused, turned his gaze to
Barry. The latter, still too surprised by the visit to be at ease, gave
a halting explanation of the disordered appearance of the room. Major
Loring listened smilingly but absently, his gaze traversing the barely
furnished quarters. When Barry had ended, the Major said:
“I see you don’t use a typewriter, Locke.”
“Sir? A typewriter? No, sir, I don’t.”
“A good many of the fellows do,” said the coach. “It seems to be coming
to be the style to have them. I suppose you can write on them.”
Barry shook his head apologetically.
“No, sir, I can’t. I’ve never owned one.”
“Still,” persisted the visitor, “I suppose Jones has one you could use
if you wanted to. Or this Nott boy.”
“Toby has one. He bought it a little while ago from some fellow who’s
selling them here in school.”
“Ever tried it?” asked the Major.
Puzzled, Barry again shook his head.
“No, sir.” Then, with a weak smile: “I don’t believe he’d let me,” he
added.
“Still, it wouldn’t be difficult to do a little writing on it if he
happened to be out, I suppose?” the Major persisted.
“I――I suppose not,” answered Barry, slowly; “only, he almost never is
out.”
“I see. Well, to come down to cases, Locke, here’s what brought me
around to see you.” The Major took an envelop from a pocket and drew
forth two folded sheets of paper. “I’m very glad to hear you say that
you don’t use a typewriter, for this letter is typewritten. Know what
it is?”
“No, sir.” Barry stared, his eyes rather round by now.
“I didn’t think you did. You mustn’t mind my asking, though; nor about
the typewriter, either. I was merely trying to――well, strengthen my own
conviction. Here, just read this.”
Barry took the missive and perused it with frowning brow. It was neatly
written on a single sheet of school paper with a typewriter such as
Toby owned and with a black ribbon. It ran as follows:
MR. GEORGE PRINCE,
HOSKINS ACADEMY,
FAIRMOUNT, CONN.
DEAR SIR:
If you want some inside dope on Broadmoor football I am in
position to supply it. I can tell you signals to be used
against your team and explain several new plays that our coach
is teaching. This is strictly confidential, so if you are not
interested kindly destroy this letter and say nothing about it.
I am not looking for money or other reward, but just to get
square with persons who have treated me mean. Address X. Y. Z.,
104 Bridge St., Wessex, Conn.
CONFIDENTIAL.
Barry’s mind was in strange confusion as he ended.
“Why――why,” he stammered in amazement, “that’s this house!”
The Major nodded.
“Yes. That’s why I’m here. You see, Locke, you’re the only one here
that could possibly supply that sort of information. Hold on! Let me
finish, please. You haven’t been under serious suspicion, my boy.
Of course for a moment I was forced to consider you, but only for a
moment. I showed the letter to Captain Buckley and he simply echoed my
own opinion. ‘It’s a silly hoax,’ he said. ‘Locke wouldn’t have any
purpose in doing a thing like that, and he isn’t the sort to do it,
anyway.’ So I just dropped in to talk it over with you. Whether it is
a hoax or not――and surely it must be――it’s unpleasant, and I’d like to
find who wrote that letter. Do you happen to know?”
Barry was staring again at the sheet in his hand, noting now something
that had at first escaped him. At four places in the course of the
writing a letter stood slightly above the level of the line, and that
letter was always a B. He shook his head, glad that the coach had
formed his question as he had.
“No, sir, I don’t,” he answered gravely.
“You had no hand in it? I mean, you knew nothing of it? Some one might
have written it as a joke, of course, and I wondered if you mightn’t
have had an inkling, Locke.”
“No, sir, I know nothing about it. You spoke of Toby Nott’s typewriter.
I was in his room a few days ago and he was using it and I noticed that
his ribbon was purple. He may have a black ribbon, of course, but we
could find out, sir.”
“Let’s not bother,” was the reply. “I’ve already accepted your word,
Locke. Now, one more thing. Suppose this was not intended as a hoax,
to get a laugh on the Hoskins people. In that case it would look like
an attempt to get you in wrong, wouldn’t it?”
“Why――yes, sir; I suppose it would,” answered Barry, unwillingly, “but
I don’t see――I don’t know――”
“That’s what I’m getting at. There’s no one you know of who might have
taken this means of evening up a score, Locke?”
“I――I just can’t imagine any fellow doing anything like that, sir, no
matter what――no matter how sore he might be!”
“Hm! that hardly answers my question, Locke. I’ll put it this way:
Since you’ve seen that letter, has it occurred to you that it might be
written by any one you know?”
Barry’s gaze dropped.
“I’d hate to suspect any fellow――” he began.
“Locke!” Major Loring’s voice had a ring that almost made Barry jump.
“Answer my question!”
Barry met the Major’s stern gaze steadily for a moment. Then he shook
his head.
“That isn’t fair, sir,” he said.
“It is fair!” answered the coach, firmly. “If this letter was not
written as a joke, it was written to compromise you. You are a member
of the team. Consequently the fellow who did that, deliberately
set out to cause trouble to the team, to interfere――maliciously
interfere――with my efforts. Why, just think a moment, Locke! Suppose
I took that letter to Doctor Clode. What would be the result? Some
one would get fired out of here mighty quick, and you know it. And he
deserves to be. Whether that was a joke or a piece of spite work, it’s
despicable. Fortunately, Prince thought it a hoax, but even so he must
think we have a strange sense of humor here at Broadmoor. Perhaps you’d
better read his letter, too.”
Barry accepted it in silence and read:
HOSKINS ACADEMY ATHLETIC BOARD
FAIRMOUNT, CONN.
_Tuesday._
MR. HARRIS LORING,
BROADMOOR SCHOOL,
WESSEX, CONN.
DEAR MR. LORING:
The inclosure reached me this morning and I’m forwarding it for
your interest. If you can discover the humorous youth who wrote
it you might tell him that we aren’t in the market for his
funny quips. Also, if you do get him, give him a couple for me!
Cordially,
GEO. A. PRINCE.
Barry handed the two letters back and the Major frowningly returned
them to the envelop and the envelop to his pocket. Then, more gently,
he said:
“You see, Locke, this doesn’t concern you alone. I’m convinced now that
the fellow who perpetrated this silly business meant to cause trouble.
Well, he deserves a lesson and I mean to see that he has it. I don’t
want to take this to the faculty, and I don’t propose to, but I do
propose to find this idiot and read the riot act to him if no more. So,
come clean, Locke, and let’s get it cleared up. Now then, do you or
don’t you suspect any one?”
After a long moment of silence Barry nodded his head:
“I do suspect some one, Major, but it’s only suspicion and I have no
right to say any more than that.”
“If your suspicion is wrongly placed, that fact will be proved, my boy.
But I think you know that it isn’t. Whom have you in mind?”
“I’d rather not say, sir.”
“You must!” The Major’s tone was sharp, but Barry only shook his head.
“No, sir,” he answered firmly. Their eyes clashed for a moment. Then:
“You are making a mistake,” said the coach, grimly. “As long as you
are on the team, Locke, I’m your superior officer, and I won’t stand
insubordination. Now think that over a minute.”
“This matter isn’t――isn’t――it doesn’t concern me as a football player,
sir.”
“It concerns the team. That’s sufficient. I want an answer, Locke.”
“I’m sorry, sir.”
There was a long silence. Barry, feeling very hopeless, stared at his
tightly clasped hands. Then he heard the Major arising and glanced up.
The Major’s countenance was very cold, very grim.
“You had better sleep on this, Locke,” he said as he moved toward
the door. “Until you can see clearly and decide to speak out, as you
should, your services won’t be required with the team. I’m sorry, my
boy.”
“I’m sorry, too, sir,” answered Barry, faintly.
Major Loring opened the door and went out. Barry listened to the sound
of his footsteps in the hall, on the stairs, and finally on the porch.
Then came the complaining creak of the gate.
“Some one,” thought Barry, “ought to grease it.”
For some minutes he stood where the Major had left him. Then something
light against a window-pane drew him across the room. It was Toby’s
moth, motionless, its lovely wings half spread. Barry placed a finger
before it and stirred it gently and the moth slowly climbed aboard.
With the other hand he opened the window at the bottom. Outside,
however, the moth showed no desire to accept his freedom and Barry had
to toss it into the dark.
“Sort of a mean trick on Toby,” he reflected as he closed the window
again. Then there was a knock at the door and Peaches sauntered in.
CHAPTER XX
THE OLD DESK REPAYS KINDNESS
“Did you find him?” asked Peaches, carelessly.
“Find who?” asked Barry, perplexed.
“Mister Moth.”
“Oh! Yes, I let him out.”
Peaches seated himself on an arm of the easy-chair and viewed Barry
shrewdly. After a silence he asked:
“Well, going to let anything else out?”
“Huh?” Barry was not, it seemed, very quick-witted this evening. “What
do you mean?”
Peaches shrugged.
“Oh, nothing, nothing at all. Only, if the head coach paid me
a visit I’d be telling all about it. But I dare say I lack
what-you-call-it――er――reticence.”
Barry began to lift the desk drawers and slide them back into place. He
performed the task very slowly, very thoughtfully. When the last one
was in he perched himself on the edge of the desk, studied his hands a
moment――rather scratched and scarred they were these days――and finally
said:
“Well, I guess I’d like to tell you, only――”
“Since I’m being consumed by curiosity,” said Peaches, when the other
paused, “I might perhaps be prevailed on to listen. You were about to
say――?”
“It’s no joke,” answered Barry, rather plaintively. “He――I――he said I
needn’t report again.”
“’Cause why?” asked the audience, after a surprised instant.
So the story came out and Peaches listened, without comment, to the
end. Then he said:
“It’s hard to say which of you is right, Barry. I see your position,
and his, too. I can’t blame him for wanting to get his hands on the
moron who sent that letter, and I can see that you’d naturally hate to
get Allen into trouble.”
“Allen!” exclaimed Barry. “Why, I didn’t say―― What makes you think――”
“Of course you didn’t say, but he’s the only chap in school you’d lose
your job on the team for, isn’t he? Don’t be worried. I’m as deaf as
the grave. No, I mean dumb. Well, what are you going to do about it?”
“Nothing,” muttered Barry.
“All you can do, I guess,” said Peaches, after some thought. “I don’t
quite get the Major’s view, though. Near as I can make out, he’s been
grooming you for more than a month to play against Hoskins. Now he
drops you three days before the game, for something that isn’t really
connected with the team. I guess he was sort of mad, wasn’t he? They
say he has a fair to middling temper. Still, it doesn’t seem quite
like him to make the school pay for a personal grudge. Well, it isn’t
exactly that, either, but――”
The telephone bell had rung during Peaches’ discourse and now Betty’s
voice called from below:
“Barry, you’re wanted on the ’phone, please!”
Downstairs, with the receiver at his ear, Barry answered, and to his
surprise heard Major Loring’s voice:
“Is that you, Locke? This is Coach Loring. I’ve been thinking over our
talk a while ago. I made a mistake, Locke. I find that you have reason
on your side. If you can give me the information I want I hope you’ll
do it, but I was wrong when I threatened you. Report as usual, Locke.
Good night.”
Barry hung up the receiver rather dazedly and stood for a long moment,
staring at the telephone, before he turned and went quickly upstairs.
Peaches had only to look at his face to know that something pleasing
had happened.
“Coach?” he asked.
Barry nodded, grinned broadly, and dropped into a chair. When Peaches
had heard the message he said approvingly:
“Good old Major! Blamed if he isn’t a white man, just as I thought!
Say, Barry, I’m awfully glad!”
Well, Barry was, too, so glad that it was some little time after
Peaches had gone back to his own room that the thought of Clyde’s
treachery returned to leaven his pleasure. He didn’t want to believe
Clyde guilty, but he had to. The evidence was too strong to admit of
doubt. There was Clyde’s threat to keep him out of the Hoskins game,
a threat never really recanted; there was the typewriter in Clyde’s
room that printed the B’s out of alignment; and finally, there were
Clyde’s almost anxious efforts to be agreeable, efforts which viewed in
the light of to-night’s developments were so plainly designed to avert
suspicion should suspicion later fall on him.
Peaches had brought up one apparently weak spot in the plot before
they had ceased discussion of it, and his subsequent explanation had
not been wholly satisfactory. Suppose, he had propounded, that Prince,
the Hoskins coach, had simply dropped that letter contemptuously into
the waste-basket. In that case nothing could have come of it. It was,
Peaches thought, taking a pretty long chance, the odds being about even
that the design to implicate Barry would fail. They had puzzled over
that for some time before Peaches offered his solution.
“What may have happened was this,” Peaches had said. “The fellow who
did it may have taken a carbon copy. If nothing happened after a few
days he would ‘find’ the copy somewhere and see that it got to the
Major or, perhaps, Captain Buck. Then if they called up the coach at
Hoskins and asked if such a letter had been received――well, there you
are! Sort of an awkward, roundabout scheme, but I don’t see any other
way it could have been done, do you?”
Barry didn’t, but a thought had come to him at about the same moment it
reached Peaches.
“If the fellow who wrote it sees that I’m still playing――”
“He’s likely to produce the copy!”
They had looked at each other in silence for a long moment. Then
Peaches had added in a detached way, “Unless, of course, some one
tipped him off.”
“Yes,” Barry had agreed thoughtfully. They had talked of other things
after that; largely of football and Barry’s reinstatement and of Friday
night at the big log cabin near the summit of Mount Sippick where the
team was taken every year on the eve of the Big Game. Now, ready for
bed, Barry still lingered. Twice he wandered to the desk and fingered a
pad of paper and twice he went away without penning the line that had
composed itself.
L. has received a letter from P.
He had only to write that and see that it got to Clyde and probably
nothing more would ever come of the affair. Clyde would understand,
and, if Peaches’ theory was correct, would not present the copy of the
letter. Still, they didn’t know that there was a copy, Barry reflected.
Peaches’ theory was ingenious, but it might be utterly wrong. If it was
wrong, there was no reason to warn Clyde. Besides, Barry wasn’t in a
forgiving mood to-night. Just short of eleven, he put out the light and
crawled wearily into bed, the note unwritten.
But in the morning the old liking for Clyde reasserted itself and
he dressed hurriedly and knocked on Toby’s door while that youth was
still in the throes of waking. Toby held the record in that house
for sleeping late, dressing quickly, and reaching chapel at the last
possible split second. And Toby was not one who sprang blithely
from bed with a glad cry to greet the dawn. Far from it! Toby awoke
gradually, protestingly; and instead of glad cries he uttered sounds
that possibly resembled the first grunts and grumbles of a bear aroused
from his winter’s hibernation.
To get Toby awake was no mean task. To get him to leave his warm couch
and stumble over to his typewriter was a man-sized job. Yet Barry
eventually succeeded in both, and Toby, still drugged with sleep,
his eyes half open and his head nodding on his shoulders, grumbling
continually, at last tapped out the words: “L. has receeved a Lettre
from P.”
“Thanks,” said Barry. “I’ll do as much for you sometime, Toby.”
“Yes you will!” mumbled Toby, bitterly. “I’ll bet if I got _you_ out of
bed in the middle of the night――”
But Barry was already beyond hearing, the sheet of paper borne in
triumph. Back in his own room, he folded it into an envelop on which he
wrote, “Allen,” in a painfully disguised hand. Then when, as he knew,
both the Second-Class fellows were at a ten-o’clock class, he went
to Number 42 Dawson and dropped the missive conspicuously on Clyde’s
chiffonier.
He didn’t see Allen until he reached the field that afternoon. Then,
if the older boy was experiencing surprise at the other’s presence at
practice, he failed to show it. He looked a bit gloomy, to be sure,
but of late he had frequently looked so, and Barry couldn’t have said
positively that the look denoted guilt. Barry was relieved that he had
to answer Clyde’s “Hello, youngster!” merely with a nod. The squads
were already forming and he hurried past.
There was an enthusiastic mass meeting that evening, and while on the
gymnasium floor little was to be heard save the sharp barks of the
quarter-backs, the shuffling of rubber soles, and the patient, measured
voices of the coaches, outside, cheers and songs filled the air. Barry
did his best to avoid Clyde and succeeded, just as he had done all day.
He was finding it hard to define his sentiments toward Clyde. There
were moments when he was very angry, moments when he felt only sorry,
moments when the old half-worshipful admiration returned powerfully.
Even when most bitter he hoped that Clyde had understood the meaning
of that note. Once he wondered if by any possibility Waterman had an
inkling of what had transpired, for twice he caught Rusty viewing him
with a broodingly malevolent gaze.
Peaches had attended the mass meeting, and so Barry, when he reached
home, was thrown on his own society. He tried study, but could make no
headway; tried a magazine, and soon cast it aside. He was thoroughly
tired, and at the same time oddly restless. Even after Peaches had
returned, informative of the celebration, the restlessness continued.
Barry listened without hearing, his thoughts racing hither and thither.
He hadn’t punted well that afternoon, he told himself. Suppose that on
Saturday he got into the game with Hoskins and fell down on his job! A
chill, pricking sensation played along his spine.
“――and that,” concluded Peaches, “is how the pole-cat came to have
white stripes.”
“Wh-what?” asked Barry, startled.
Peaches laughed.
“Well, you weren’t hearing a word I said, so I thought I’d try a jolt.
What’s the worst symptom? Do you see black specks floating before your
eyes? Does the mind suddenly go blank? So far as you know, were any of
your ancestors insane? Do you experience a strange sinking sensation
when falling from a roof?”
“Shut up,” said Barry, grinning faintly. “I―― Gee! I do feel sort
of――of queer! Kind of like I felt just before I had the grippe. I ache
in lots of places, and I think my head’s hot, and――”
“Your appetite’s on the blink.”
“Yes, how did you know? I hardly ate any supper. And I’m sort of
nervous-like, if you know what I mean.”
“I know exactly,” replied Peaches, solemnly. “And I know your malady.
You’ve got ‘Just-before-the-battle, Mother.’ It’s very common at this
time of year among football artists.”
“You mean I’m――I’m scared?” began Barry, indignantly.
“I do not. I mean you’re jumpy. And I prescribe sleep, and lots of it,
Barry. Toddle off and hit the old hay. And forget all about the game,
Ace. All the thinking you can do won’t make you play one bit better
to-morrow.”
“Well, but do you think it’s just that? Did you ever feel that way?
Sort of――sort of――”
“More than once――hardened and blasé as I am! To bed with you. Sleep,
sleep deep and refreshing is the answer. Go to it!”
Peaches’ remedy worked wonders, as morning revealed. Barry was
fortunate in having but two recitations that day, and, as he had not
prepared for them the evening before, he was glad that both came late.
Breakfast over, he went back to the house in company with Zo. Zo was in
a fairly hectic mood and discussed football all the way.
“Mr. Banks won’t let me off to-morrow,” he announced dismally, “and
I’ll miss the first quarter of the game, sure. I don’t see why he
can’t cut one lesson!” Back in his room, Barry set his books out and
drew up to the old desk. He was still indulging in certain fidgeting
preliminaries to concentration when the squeak of the gate brought him
to his feet so that he could command a view of the sidewalk. It was not
Peaches entering, however, but Mr. Benjy sallying forth for his first
visit to the freight-office since his illness. He had on a shabby but
warm overcoat and walked with an almost buoyant stride. Barry thrust
the window up and hailed him.
“Hello, Mr. Benjy! Gee! it’s good to see you up and around, sir! How
are you feeling?”
Mr. Benjy turned, waved a hand, and smiled with pleasure.
“Good morning, Barry! I am feeling quite――er――quite myself again.
Yes, I may say that the rest has done me good, I think. I feel
extraordinarily――er――fit.”
“Well, take care of yourself, sir. Don’t throw too much freight around!”
It was Peaches’ fiction that Mr. Benjy handled all the freight,
personally and exclusively. Mr. Benjy chuckled at the ancient jest,
nodded, waved with something of an air, and set out along the sidewalk,
his shoulders thrust back and his head high. Mr. Benjy had assumed his
militant attitude. Barry smiled after him and then, closing the window,
settled back in his chair.
“Sort of a dear,” he reflected. “Hard lines to have to work as hard as
he does and then give most of his pay to those factory men! I suppose
Davy will be getting out to-night.”
Half an hour passed. Then the need of a fresh scratch-pad caused him
to pull open the second drawer at his side. It wasn’t the right one,
however, for in returning the drawers to their places, two nights
before, he had, it appeared, got them mixed. He was about to close
it again and open the one below, when his eyes were attracted to an
unfamiliar object lying on top of the other contents. He lifted it
perplexedly and turned it over and back again. It was an oblong fold of
heavy paper. In large engraved letters appeared the words: “Northern
Counties Light and Power Company.” Beneath he read, “$1,000.” He might
have read more, but he didn’t. Instead he hurriedly, unbelievingly
unfolded the crackling document. Of course it wasn’t really a bond. It
couldn’t be, because if it was, how had it got into his desk? But it
was. It said so in much detail, and there, below, in serried ranks,
were dozens of little yellow coupons!
Barry stared dazedly.
CHAPTER XXI
A MYSTERY SOLVED
Returning five minutes later, Peaches thrust his head in at Barry’s
door, with strange results. An agitated youth rushed upon him, waving
a large sheet of paper. Peaches retreated. Barry pursued. Barry was
somewhat inarticulate, but Peaches finally gathered that he was being
entreated to look at the paper. He did so obligingly. Then he looked at
Barry.
“Well, what is it?” he demanded. “Where’d you get it? Who gave――”
“I didn’t!” gasped Barry. “Nobody did! I found it! In the desk!”
“You found it!” Peaches laughed mirthlessly. “Go on,” he said. “Have
your little joke.”
“But I tell you――”
“Yes, I know,” said Peaches, soothingly. “Let’s find a couple in the
bureau, eh? Quit your kidding, Barry. What’s the big idea?”
“Gee! I’m telling you!” shouted Barry, exasperated. “Look at it! Is it
any good?”
“Any good?” Peaches acted somewhat dazed himself now. “Of course it’s
any good. At least――why, sure it is! What do you think? ‘Northern
Counties Light and Power,’ eh? One thousand dollars. Six per cent.
Maturing nineteen-forty-three. Why wouldn’t it be good?”
“I didn’t say it wasn’t! I only wanted to be sure!”
“Well, you’d better take it to the bank, then. It looks all right to
me, but there may be a catch to it. Where’d you get it?”
“Great Scott! I’ve told you twenty times!” Barry dragged him to the
desk and pointed to the open drawer. “In there! It was lying there,
right on top. Folded. I went to look for a patch-scrad――”
“A _what_?” Peaches viewed his friend in dawning suspicion. Last night
Barry had complained of not feeling well. Could it be possible that――
“Say, you got much fever?” he asked, trying to put a hand on Barry’s
forehead.
“Shut up, can’t you? I said I was looking for a scratch-pad, and it was
the wrong door――drawer, I mean――and there was this thing staring at me!
How’d it get there, Peaches?”
“Gosh! you don’t suspect me, do you? Listen, Barry, I’m not feeling
strong to-day. Put that blamed thing down a minute and tell it to me in
words of one sillabub.”
Barry did so. Peaches whistled. They stared at each other. Then, with
lowered voice:
“Do you suppose that’s the bond that Davy――that was lost that time?”
asked Peaches.
“Of course it is! Don’t you see? He wanted to get rid of it and came up
here some time when I was out and put it in that drawer!”
“Gosh!” muttered Peaches. Then, after an instant: “But hold on! What
would be the idea? Why put it in there? If he had it that long, why
should he want to get rid of it?”
“How do I know? But here it is, isn’t it?”
“Yes, if it is! I mean if that’s the same bond. After all, Barry,
that’s just a theory.”
“Well――hang it!――who else would do it? And――and why pick on me? Gee!
every one’s trying to put something over on me lately! First there
was that letter, and now there’s this! Why, I might be arrested for
stealing it!”
“Not likely, since you weren’t around at the time. Hold yourself and
let’s look at this thing calmly. When did you look in that drawer
last?” he asked.
“Last?” Barry considered. “I don’t know. I’m not certain. I don’t think
I’ve had it open for a couple of days; not since we had the drawers
out, the night Toby was in here.”
“You put them back after the Major left,” said Peaches. “Remember?
Well, it wasn’t there then, I suppose, or you’d have seen it.”
Barry nodded, but doubtfully.
“I guess so,” he said. “Still, I mightn’t. I――I was sort of
flabbergasted just then. I must have been, because I got the second
drawer where the third drawer goes and the third drawer――”
“Hold on!” exclaimed Peaches, excitedly. “Remember when Toby was
rummaging through the desk? Remember his saying something about
something being stuck in a splinter inside the desk?”
Barry shook his head.
“No, I don’t remember that.”
“Well,” said Peaches, triumphantly, “I do! Where’s Toby?”
“In his room, I guess. Want me to――”
“_Toby! Toby Nott!_” shouted Peaches, loudly. There was a protesting
answer from beyond the pink wall. “_Come here! On the run!_”
Peaches seized the document and refolded it, returning it to the top
of the desk just as Toby, a book in one hand, arrived at the door and
viewed them aggrievedly through his big spectacles.
“What you want?” he asked.
“Come in,” Peaches directed. “Say, Toby: you remember the night you
brought that moth in here?”
“Yes, I do,” replied Toby, moving his gaze accusingly to Barry. “He
went and threw it out the window!”
“Never mind that. When you were hunting inside the desk, after the
drawers were out, did you find anything?”
“No, he wasn’t there. Barry found him afterward――”
“Leave that plaguey moth out of it a minute, can’t you? Did you find
a――a paper or anything, I mean?”
Toby blinked, thought hard an instant, and then nodded.
“Yeah, there was a letter――no, not a letter――well, something up in the
corner. It was stuck up against the top with a splinter. I told you
about it and I put it in one of those drawers, and you needn’t try to
make out that I swiped it!”
“Is this it?”
Toby moved forward, glanced at the indicated article, and nodded.
“Sure it is! What’s all the row about, then? If you’ve got it――”
“You’re certain this is what you found?”
“’Course I’m certain! It had printing on it just like that. Say, what’s
it all about, anyway?” Toby viewed the document again. “Bond? Lookut,
Barry: if it don’t belong to you, I claim it! Yes, sir, I found it!
Lookut――”
“Much obliged,” said Peaches. “That’s all, Toby.”
“No, it ain’t, either! If that’s worth anything, I’ve got a right to
share in it. Now, see here, you fellows――”
“Toby!” said Peaches, quietly emphatic.
Toby became silent and moved toward the door, his gaze, however, still
lingering on the bond. Finally the mutinous spirit prevailed.
“That’s all right,” he ejaculated bitterly as he held the door between
him and Peaches, “but all I’ve got to say is you guys have got a gall
to throw my moth away and then try to do me out of my bond!”
As, however, neither of the others was longer aware of his existence,
he went off, muttering, and presently the slam of his door sounded a
final indignant protest.
Some three minutes later Barry and Peaches left the house hurriedly
and made toward the village. Somewhere at the rear of Mr. Hannabury’s
shop a bell tinkled, and the dealer in antiques answered the summons.
“About that desk I bought from you a while ago, Mr. Hannabury――” began
Barry.
“Yes, a very good desk,” said the dealer, smiling. “A real bargain,
too, young man.”
“Yes. Well, sir, I was wondering where it came from. I mean, would you
mind telling me where you got it?”
Mr. Hannabury was silently suspicious a moment. Then he answered:
“Well, now, it ain’t customary to tell where things come from, but I
guess there ain’t any harm in telling you that. That desk belonged to
Mr. Watkins, Mr. Benton Watkins, of Watkins and Boyle. He used it in
his office for more than twenty years, he told me. You don’t find desks
nowadays made like that one’s made. They used to――”
“Funny he sold it,” interrupted Peaches, carelessly. “It’s such a nice
desk you’d think he’d have wanted to keep it.”
“Well,” said Mr. Hannabury, “they got a notion to put in a lot of this
here oak furniture last year. Mr. Watkins said they were gettin’ fitted
out all new and up to date. Guess there wasn’t room for the old desk.
I bought that and a chair and one or two little things. Didn’t make
much on ’em, either. Mr. Watkins drives a hard bargain. I’d like you to
look at that swivel chair before you go. It rightly belongs with the
desk and you’d ought to have it.”
But Barry thought otherwise, and a moment later they were again in the
street and striding briskly homeward. For a moment neither said a word.
Then Peaches chuckled, and:
“I guess that settles it, Barry,” he said. “Somehow or other that bond
got into Watkins’s desk; probably he put it there himself. Being wedged
in the way it was, it stayed right there when the desk was cleaned
out.” He chuckled again. “Gosh! old Huckabuckle, or whatever his name
is, missed a rare find, didn’t he?”
“What are we going to do now?” asked Barry, excitedly.
Peaches considered.
“Well, there’s no one at home except Mrs. Lyle――and Davy. By Jove!
that’s the idea! We’ll spill it to Davy! After all, he’s the most
interested, I suppose. Maybe he will remember how the thing got into
the desk.”
Reaching the house, Barry went upstairs and Peaches sought Davy. Barry
rescued the bond from where he had concealed it before departing for
the village, and laid it, blank side up on the blotter. A moment later
Peaches and David Lyle came in.
Davy was much like his father, with Mr. Benjy’s small features and
friendly, gentle eyes. But Davy was taller and spoke with a firmness
and initiative that Mr. Benjy lacked. A good-looking boy, Barry
thought, and one likely to make more of a success in life than his
father had. Having smilingly shaken hands, Davy took the chair that
Peaches offered and looked inquiringly from one to another.
“Davy,” began Peaches, “I want to ask a couple of questions, and I
don’t want you to think I’m cheeky. I’ve got a reason for them.”
“All right,” said Davy, quietly.
“What sort of bond was it that was lost last winter at Watkins and
Boyle’s?”
“N. C. Light and Power,” answered Davy. “One thousand dollars, six per
cent, nineteen-forty-three, coupons attached.”
Peaches grinned and Barry took a long breath. Davy watched Peaches
unwaveringly.
“Ever see that desk before?” asked Peaches, nodding.
Davy looked at the article, frowned slightly, and hesitated.
“I think so, but it wasn’t in this room last year, was it?”
“No,” said Peaches.
“Seems to me I remember it,” puzzled Davy, “but I think it was
somewhere else. Why?”
“Did they have anything like it where you worked? At the factory, I
mean.”
“By gum! Why, that’s―― Of course it isn’t, but it’s a ringer for the
desk Mr. Watkins had in the outer office!”
“Right! One more question, Davy. Ever see that before?” He pointed to
the oblong fold of paper lying conspicuously on the blue blotter. Davy
arose, reached for it, and drew back. His face looked almost as white
as the parchment.
[Illustration: “EVER SEE THAT BEFORE?”]
“Jones, if this is a joke it’s――it’s a rotten one,” he said hoarsely.
“Have a look,” answered Peaches, cheerfully. “It won’t bite you.”
Davy raised the bond, turned it over, and stood staring at it a long
moment. Then he laughed uncertainly, laid the document down again, and
walked to the window. After a little moment he asked, still looking
out, “Where did you get it, Peaches?”
“Barry found it in that desk. He bought the desk from a second-hand man
in the village. Is it the one?”
“Yes.” Davy turned and came back. He laid a finger on the upper left
corner of the bond. “There’s Mr. Boyle’s mark. He examined the bond and
wrote his initials in pencil in the corner, as he always did.” Barry
and Peaches leaned over and looked. The letters “T. J. B.” were dimly
discernible. They had been written with a hard pencil, evidently, and
neither Barry nor Peaches had noticed them before.
“I don’t understand, though,” Davy continued, frowning, “how it got
there. I put it in the safe!”
“Are you certain?” asked Peaches. “This was found by Toby one night
when he had the drawers out, looking for a moth that got away from
him. He says it was lodged under a splinter against the top there. You
wouldn’t have put it there, would you?”
“Wait a minute.” Davy was staring hard at the old carpet. “Let me
think, fellows.” There was a moment of silence. Then Davy’s head came
up sharply and he said with a rush:
“I remember now! I _didn’t_ put it in the safe! Mr. Boyle handed it to
me and said, ‘Put that in Box B., David,’ and I went into the outer
office, and Mr. Watkins looked up and asked if that was the Light and
Power bond and I said it was and he said, ‘Let me see it a minute’! I
gave it to him, and just then Haggard called me and I went back to the
outer office. Haggard――he was office manager――kept me busy until noon
hour and I forgot about the bond, I suppose. When they asked me later,
I was certain I’d put it in the safe. I thought I remembered pulling
out the box and laying the bond inside!”
“What happened,” said Peaches, “is that Watkins probably stuffed the
thing into that top drawer and it somehow got lodged under the splinter
when the drawer was closed.”
“That’s exactly it!” agreed Davy. “That drawer was always stuffed full.
He was like that. He was forever losing things and having to search
all through that desk. Funny my forgetting, though! Why, I remember
all about it now!” He dropped into his chair and grinned joyfully at
Peaches and Barry. “Say, this is bully luck for me, fellows!” he added.
“I’ll say so!” said Peaches. He jumped up and thumped Davy on the back.
“Gosh, I’m glad! And I’d like to be around when you hand that over to
Watkins and Boyle. I’d like to see their faces!”
“You will,” said Davy. “I won’t touch it, fellows. You must take it to
them and tell them all about it. If I did it they’d say I had it all
the time and was making the story up!”
“Well,” said Peaches, doubtfully. Then: “Or how about letting Mr. Benjy
do it? Gosh! it would tickle him to death, Davy! What do you think?”
Davy laughed.
“All right, but you chaps must be on hand as witnesses. Why, say, I can
go right out now and sit on the front porch! Or walk downtown! By gum,
it’s great to have this thing cleared up! Look here: if we telephone to
Dad now we could meet him downtown and go to the factory, I guess.”
“I couldn’t go,” said Barry. “I’ve got a recitation in just twelve
minutes.”
“Nor I,” said Peaches. “And we’d need Toby, too. Let’s leave it until
after dinner. You telephone Mr. Benjy, Davy, and I’ll round up the
bunch for one o’clock. You’d better look after this thing until then, I
guess.”
“No, thanks,” answered Davy, grimly. “I’m not even going to touch it
again. You fellows keep it. I’m going down to tell Mother. Say, honest,
fellows, I can’t ever tell you how grateful I am. Gosh, it’s like――like
finding a million dollars; only better!”
“Don’t thank me,” laughed Peaches. “Thank Barry.”
“Don’t thank me, either,” said Barry. “Toby’s your man, for if he
hadn’t come in with his old moth――”
“Thank the moth!” exclaimed Peaches. “If you can find him!”
CHAPTER XXII
UP THE MOUNTAIN
Altogether, that was a hectic day. Barry didn’t accompany the others
to Watkins and Boyle’s after dinner, for Major Loring made a change
in his plans and called the candidates together in the gymnasium at
one-thirty. But he got a graphic account of the affair from Peaches.
Mr. Benjy, declared Peaches, was superb. Reminded by Davy of the
circumstances, Mr. Watkins recalled asking for the bond and being
summoned to the telephone a moment later. He did not remember placing
the bond in the drawer, but was convinced that he had done so.
Complete exoneration for Davy had ensued, and both Mr. Watkins and
Mr. Boyle had been profuse in their apologies. They had offered
reinstatement to Davy at a larger salary than he had received before,
and had almost begged Mr. Benjy to return. Both invitations had,
however, been refused. Mr. Benjy had been dignity personified,
displaying a quite unbelievable hauteur all through the interview and,
at the last, leaving the office with his arm through Davy’s and his
head in the air, like a conqueror; which, when you came to think of it,
he was!
Davy, said Peaches, had decided to return to Springfield, while Mr.
Benjy, relieved of the necessity for making further reimbursements
to Watkins and Boyle, and with a comfortable check in his pocket,
representing what he had previously paid to them, was content to remain
at the freight-office. The whole occasion, Peaches remarked, had been
eminently satisfactory until the return. Then he had been obliged to
enlighten a perplexed and much dissatisfied Toby, a Toby still of the
opinion that, in some underhand fashion, he had been “crooked”――the
word was his――out of at least a third interest in that bond!
“Well,” said Barry, thoughtfully, “it’s mighty funny how things happen.
If Clyde hadn’t decided to room with Hal Stearns, I wouldn’t have gone
to Mrs. Lyle’s; and if I hadn’t gone there, I wouldn’t have had to buy
a desk; and if I hadn’t bought that desk――”
“The bond wouldn’t have been found until the lot of us were wearing
chin whiskers,” interrupted Peaches, “if then! Because no one but you,
Barry, would ever have bought that funny old thing!”
“Funny old thing!” exclaimed Barry. “Huh! I guess you wish you
could find some funny old things just like it! Let me tell you, Mr.
Jones, it isn’t every one can go into an antique store and pick up
thousand-dollar bonds!”
At half-past one o’clock there was a session of blackboard drill in
the gymnasium. At a little after two the players went out to the field
to find the home stand crowded with a cheering mass of schoolmates and
friends from the village. For half an hour there was light practice,
during which Barry got off some very satisfactory punts and Pete Zosker
kicked goals from every conceivable angle and possible distance. All
the time the audience sang and cheered and excitement was in the chill
November air. At three the first squad trotted back to the gymnasium,
pursued by thunderous “Broadmoors!” leaving a handful of substitutes to
amuse the spectators a while longer. At twenty minutes to four came the
send-off at the station.
Those who were to make the trip to “Overlook” had been conveyed in the
bus to the station, their bags between their knees, while the rest of
the school had marched thither, still singing, still cheering. At the
last the little branch-line train of a baggage-car and two ancient
coaches was surrounded by a horde of shouting partizans, and not until
the wheels were actually revolving did confusion give way to order.
Then cheers began again, Billy Bassett, standing atop a baggage-truck,
leading. Long after the train had pulled out of sight of the station
Barry could still hear the hoarse refrain of “Team! _Team!_ TEAM!”
“Overlook,” or, as it was more usually called, “The Cabin,” belonged to
a council of Boy Scouts in a near-by city and was each year loaned to
Broadmoor for the use of the team on the night preceding the Hoskins
contest. Major Loring had inaugurated the plan of taking the players
away on the eve of the big game, his theory being that the change of
scene benefited his charges both physically and mentally. The cabin
stood just short of the summit of Mount Sippick, at the end of a trail
which started at the little village of Alden, about eight miles from
Wessex, not as the crow flies but as the ever ascending, ever winding
single-track railroad went. From Alden there was an uphill hike of well
over a mile.
The party consisted of twenty players and eight noncombatants. The
latter included the Major and two assistant coaches, two managers, the
trainer, and two helpers. Travel was never heavy on the line and the
Broadmoor party had the two coaches almost to themselves. Barry, rather
excited by the adventure, shared a seat with Larry Smythe, regular left
end. Larry was a quiet chap and, while there was plenty of noise from
other parts of the coach, conversation in the end seat was scanty.
Barry was well enough pleased to be silent. There was much to think
about. Clyde had seemed to expect Barry to sit with him a few seats
back, and Barry still puzzled over the look of surprise on the other’s
face when he had gone past. Barry was especially thankful that Larry
Smythe didn’t insist on talking football. Larry’s only approach to that
subject was in the form of an indifferent reference to the absence of
Waterman.
“He was on the list yesterday. Must have missed the train.”
Barry agreed and the matter was dropped. His feet propped on his
suit-case, he watched the hillclad slope as the train panted around
the curves. He found himself wishing that Peaches were there. Behind
him there was a good deal of noise and horseplay, encouraged rather
than frowned on by the coaches. At Sanborn Mills, the first halt, half
the party flocked outside and indulged in all the pranks they could
think of. There wasn’t much to be seen there: a few houses climbing a
straggling road, a store, the station, and the old brown buildings of
the mills leaning over the bank of the splashing stream across from the
railroad.
The train went on, following the East Fork, hardly more than a
trout-brook now, and jerking and grinding around a shoulder of the
mountain. When the shrill whistle announced their approach to the next
station, Barry arose.
“Guess I’ll get a breath of air,” he said. Larry Smythe yawned and
nodded, but didn’t accompany the other. As the train slowed, another
rush down the aisle began, and Barry was jostled through the door.
Clyde, one of the laughing crowd, hailed him.
“Come on, Barry!” he cried. “Take a look around the city!”
But Barry shook his head soberly and kept his place on the car
platform. Mount Sippick was even less of a metropolis than Sanborn
Mills. A narrow dirt road climbed upward, hugging the mountain, and
along it were four buildings, the nearer combining the purposes of
dwelling, store, and post-office. There was no baggage-truck here for
the amusement of the invaders, but they managed to create plenty
of noise and a good deal of interest on the part of the half-dozen
inhabitants gathered for the daily event. Some of the fellows wandered
as far as the little bridge which hung well above the boisterous
stream, and when without warning the train started on, they had to
sprint hard to reach it. Most of them climbed aboard the rear platform,
but Clyde, finding so many ahead of him there and fearing that by the
time he got a chance to clamber up it would be too late, raced on to
the platform ahead. As the track was nearly level for a short distance
beyond the station, the train acquired speed quickly and there was
a moment or two when Clyde doubted the issue. The station loiterers
jeeringly cheered him on, and after running the length of the platform,
he reached the intersection of two coaches and made a desperate leap.
Only his right hand reached its goal. This attained a firm grasp on the
railing nearest the rear car. His left hand clutched emptily, missing
the forward rail. As he had left the station platform before he sprang
for the steps, he had not been able to reach the latter with his feet.
The most he could attempt was to lodge his knees on the bottom step,
and at that he was only half successful. His right knee did get there,
but only by a bare inch, while his left leg hung in space. Then the
forward impetus of the train swung him around, his right knee slipped
off the step and, supported only by his right hand, he hung there,
scared, breathless while the train sped on, preparing for its start up
the next grade.
Try as he might, he could not reach the railing with his left hand, nor
could he find the step with his right foot. All he could do was hold
agonizingly with that one hand. Beside him the rocky bank of the cut
rushed past, at times dangerously close. To let go would mean certain
injury, if not death; indeed, it seemed hardly possible that, dropping,
he would not be hurled beneath the wheels. He cried out frantically,
but the noise of the train, doubled as it was thrown back by the rocky
wall, almost drowned his voice. It seemed to Clyde that he had dangled
there many minutes, although in reality his plight had lasted but a few
seconds, when absolute terror came to him with the knowledge that his
grasp on the rail was slipping. One trailing foot struck the end of a
tie and he drew his legs up and put his remaining breath in a shrill,
agonized shout.
Barry had remained on the car platform until the train was well under
way, ignorant of the narrow escape from being left behind that had
threatened the handful of adventurous youths who had gone back to the
bridge, an escape that had moved the remaining occupants of the car to
laughter. Slamming the door behind him, he stepped back to his seat
beside Smythe and settled his feet again on his suit-case.
As he did so a sound came to him above the rattle and jar of the train,
a sound that startled him until he laid it to the screeching of the
wheel flanges against the curving rails. It came again as, discovering
that his backward thrust at the door had failed to close it, he
once more arose and approached the platform. As he stood there, the
door-knob in his hand, the strange sound fell once more on his ears and
seemed to turn his heart over. Instinctively he sprang outside, drawing
the door shut behind him, and stared about. The platforms and steps of
the swaying cars were empty. Still shaken, he turned to reënter the
coach and saw a straining hand clasped about a railing.
CHAPTER XXIII
EVEN-STEVEN
“You’d better stay out here a minute,” said Barry, “and get your
breath.”
Clyde, seated on the platform, his back against the car, nodded
silently. His lungs still fought convulsively for air, but the blood
was coming slowly back to his white cheeks. Barry, who had displayed
no hesitation, felt no fear when he had pulled the other back to
safety, now found himself rather faint and wabbly and was glad enough
to accept the advice he had offered to Clyde. He crouched by the other
for several minutes while the train, meeting stiffer opposition now,
labored slowly up the mountain. Finally Clyde gave a long sigh and
spoke shakily:
“Thanks, Barry. I――I couldn’t have held on another moment.” He
shuddered. “Gosh, that was fierce!”
“Must have been,” agreed Barry, none too firmly. “All right now?”
“In a minute,” Clyde muttered. “My arm――” With a trembling hand he
explored his right shoulder. “I guess it won’t be much good for a
while. I had my whole weight on it, you see. I couldn’t get hold of
anything with the other hand. Just dangled there. Couldn’t have held
much longer. Afraid to drop. Kept thinking of the wheels. Ugh!”
“Better forget it now and come inside,” said Barry. “Fellows will be
wondering where you are.”
“Rather they didn’t know, Barry. You won’t say anything? Don’t believe
any one saw, eh? I’ll stay here. We’ll be there in a few minutes. I’m
all right now, but――I’d rather not go inside.” He took a deep breath
and attempted a smile.
Barry wished there weren’t the matter of that letter between them. He
wanted to speak warmly, but he couldn’t. All he could do was to ask
carelessly:
“Want me to bring you some water?”
Clyde seemed not to notice anything lacking in the other’s voice or
manner. He shook his head.
“I’m all right,” he repeated. “Just want to sit still a minute longer.”
Barry started to scramble up, but Clyde went on with:
“I guess it’s even-Steven now, Barry. Fifty-fifty, eh? I saved your
life that time and now you’ve saved mine. Funny!”
“Well, you might have rolled clear of the wheels,” replied Barry,
unemotionally.
“Not a chance! I’d have hit the bank and rolled right under. I’m sure
of it. Well――” Clyde drew another long breath――“well, I didn’t, old
man, and you’re to thank for it.” A hand groped for Barry’s and Barry
took it. Clyde’s clasp was almost painful.
“Thanks,” he said simply.
“That’s――all right.” Barry climbed hurriedly to his feet. “I’d better
go back,” he muttered. “There’s the whistle now.”
Larry Smythe turned from the contemplation of the scenery and gave
Barry a long questioning stare.
“You’re a real fresh-air fiend,” he observed. “What have you been doing
out there? Counting cinders? You’ve collected a good many, by the way.”
Barry laughed and tugged at his suit-case.
“Guess we’re about there, Larry,” he said. “Get a move on you!”
In the confusion of arrival Clyde escaped notice. A few minutes later
the march up the trail had begun, and bags, while lightly packed,
became increasingly burdensome. But every one remained cheerful to
the end of the journey, although after a while conversation and song
petered out. Clyde had elected to walk with Barry, but, to the latter’s
relief, was almost silent.
The cabin proved to be a huge log structure fronted by a low, unrailed
porch. Already the big stone chimney was sending smoke into the
deepening dusk as the expedition came within sight of it, and an
approving cheer arose. Joey, one of the school cooks, appeared at the
doorway and waved a mighty carving-knife in response. Joey and an
assistant had been up there since early forenoon, and everything was in
readiness. One end of the cabin held the bunks. At the other was the
big fireplace and a long pine table facing it, a table sufficient to
accommodate many more than were to gather about it now, and which, even
so, escaped the walls on each side by several yards. A near-by door
gave a glimpse of a lean-to kitchen and emitted the fragrant smoke of
broiling steaks.
The great building, beamed with gleaming birch logs, glowed with the
mellow light of the crackling fire and was alive with dancing shadows.
While the arrivals trooped in, shouting joyously, and chose their
bunks by the simple expedient of tossing their bags upon them, the
hanging lamps were lighted. Through the open, unpaned windows along
the front the tops of the trees showed below, dropping away until at
a distance, seen in the first darkness, they gave the appearance of a
dark-hued carpet. It was chill but sparkling, that mountain air, and
Barry found his depression gone before a sudden feeling of buoyancy and
well-being and――yes, most certainly――ravenous hunger!
It was all very merry, very noisy, very jolly during the half-hour
before supper. If any one thought of the morrow’s test, at least none
spoke of it, nor would he have been suspected of dwelling on it. There
were singing and a deal of laughter and a few practical jokes, and
presently Joey appeared with the first platter and a jovial shout
of, “Come get it!” After that, for a long while, comparative silence
reigned, a silence that was itself a tribute to Joey’s talent.
After supper many of the party went out to the long, deep veranda
and watched the stars sparkling in a frosty sky and the home lights,
tiny yellow pin-points, gleaming in the valley. Hal Stearns, who had
observed with evident disapproval Clyde’s renewed intimacy with
Barry, bore the former away to an end of the porch. Barry, feeling
very peaceful and very lazy, stretched himself flat on his back,
his legs over the edge of the porch floor, and gave himself up to
thought. A few yards away Captain Buckley and three or four others were
talking busily, and Barry’s ruminations were at first punctuated with
the frequent rounds of laughter. But presently his thoughts took so
interesting a turn that he was no longer conscious of neighbors.
When most of a half-hour had passed he sat up abruptly and climbed to
his feet. Clyde and Hal and Goof Ellingham were seated at the end of
the porch, and as Barry approached he heard the conclusion of a remark
of Goof’s:
“And Al said he understood Rusty had been given a cut until to-morrow,
the lucky beggar!”
“Oh, I don’t know,” said Hal, yawning. “This isn’t so rotten, Goof!”
“Clyde,” asked Barry, “may I see you a minute?”
“Sure!” Clyde’s response was prompt, even cordial, but it held
surprise. He joined Barry and the latter led the way across the small
plateau on which the cabin was built, to a ledge that jutted out from
the end of the trail. Clyde said:
“We were talking about Rusty Waterman. He didn’t come along, and Al
Sampson says the Major gave him a cut.”
“I noticed he wasn’t with us,” replied Barry. Then: “You said a while
back, Clyde, that I’d saved your life,” he said.
“I say it again,” asserted Clyde. “You sure did, Barry!”
“And that we were even on that score.”
“One-all,” agreed Clyde.
“Then,” went on the other, “I don’t owe you anything, as I see it. I
mean there isn’t any reason now why I ought to let gratitude stand in
the way of――of straight talk.”
“Why, no,” said Clyde, in a puzzled tone. “But I don’t see what you’re
getting at, youngster.”
“I’ll tell you. We’ve been friends――sort of――for a good while, Clyde,
and――”
“‘Sort of’! Where do you get that? We’ve been mighty good friends! Of
course I know that lately I haven’t――well――hang it, Barry――I’ve been
rather a blighter. I’ve wanted to tell you this for a week or so, but
you’ve been pretty upstage with me and I didn’t get a chance. Fact
is――” Clyde paused, evidently searching for words, and Barry cut in.
“That part’s all right,” he said. “I can forgive that, but that letter
is different, Clyde. That――that’s――”
“What letter?”
“You know, I guess,” Barry answered patiently. “The letter to Coach
Prince.” He dropped his voice cautiously, although the darkness held no
others nearer than the porch. “I want to talk about that, Clyde, and
get it off my chest. Maybe you didn’t mean――”
“But――suffering cats!” interrupted Clyde. “I don’t know what you’re
talking about!”
There was a moment’s silence. Then Barry asked:
“Honest, Clyde? You mean that you didn’t write it? Or have a hand in
it?”
“I don’t know what _it_ is!” exclaimed the other, in an exasperated
voice. “I haven’t written any letter to any coach――hang it!”
“Gosh!” said Barry, softly. “Gosh, that’s great! I thought of course――”
“What letter is it?” demanded Clyde, impatiently.
Barry told him all the circumstances, while Clyde expressed bewilderment
and resentment, by various sounds that were not quite words. And when
Barry had explained, Clyde had many questions to ask, and got so excited
and angry that the other had to caution him against being overheard.
“Whoever pulled that stunt ought to get kicked out of school!” declared
Clyde, hotly. “And――and you thought it was me!”
“I didn’t want to,” said Barry, “but I couldn’t help it. You said that
night in your room that you’d see that I didn’t play against Hoskins――”
“But――great Scott!――I was only talking, you idiot! I was mad, all
right, that time, I’ll own, but――but――say, you make me tired! You ought
to know me well enough to know that I wouldn’t pull a dirty trick like
that, Barry!”
“I’m sorry,” said the other. “But you did say it, and just as if you
meant it; and then there was that typewriter of yours that printed the
B’s above the line.”
“Yes, that’s so,” Clyde admitted, somewhat mollified. “And that’s
funny, too. Look here, you don’t suppose Hal――”
“I thought of him,” replied Barry “but he wouldn’t have any reason,
would he?”
“He might have,” murmured Clyde, thoughtfully. “But――hang it,
Barry!――there may be other machines that print the B’s crazy.”
“Of course, there must be. You didn’t write the letter, and I don’t
believe Hal Stearns did, so――”
“Wait a bit! When was that thing written?”
“Mr. Prince received it Tuesday morning. There wasn’t any date on it.”
“Tuesday morning? Then it must have been written on Monday at the
latest, eh? Well,” and Clyde’s voice arose triumphantly, “I didn’t get
that machine until Tuesday noon! You can ask Whitwell!”
“Well,” said Barry, after a moment’s consideration of the announcement,
“that certainly lets Hal out, doesn’t it? But――shucks! I don’t care now
who did it! Just as long as you didn’t, what’s it matter?”
“It matters a lot,” grumbled Clyde. “What sort of bozos do you suppose
Mr. Prince thinks we are, over here? I hope the Major finds out who did
that, and gives him thunder! I’d like to take a wallop at him myself.”
Presently, having pursued this thought sufficiently, he went on:
“Say, Barry, I’ve got to apologize for acting like a nut lately. I’m
sorry, and that’s no apple-sauce. I――I’ve been sort of off my trolley,
I guess. You see, I’d set my heart on making the team this year, like
I told you before. And when you fell for Major Loring’s bid I knew I
was dished. I’ve always known that you’d make a cracker-jack player if
you once got started. You’ve got something I haven’t got: a sort of――of
_spirit_, I guess. I don’t know just what it is, but you’ve got it.
And I haven’t――never’ll have it, probably. Get you started and you’ll
go through fire. Best I’ll do is wait around for the engines to come!
Well, I know now that I’ll never make a reputation playing football;
and now that I do know it I don’t care a whole lot.
“After all,” he went on, “I’ve just about decided that some of the
crowd I’ve been trailing aren’t much good. I got started sort of wrong
last year. Thought I had to train with the silk-stocking bunch, when I
wasn’t really in their class. Some of them are all right,――a few,――but
I guess most of them have been laughing at me behind my back, right
along. It isn’t only a question of money; Dad’s got enough of that;
you’ve got to know how to spend it in all sorts of crazy ways, and
act like it wasn’t anything at all and make believe you’ve always had
plenty and it’s a frightful bore. And you’ve got to wear your clothes a
certain way――and the right kind of clothes, too――and talk about folks
who get their names in the papers on Sunday, and know all about queer
things like opera and polo and――and a lot of other bunk. And play a
good hand at bridge. I can’t; I hate the fool game. And I’m tired of
trying to keep up with the gang. If they want to chuck me they may. I
hope they do! Hang it, I’m just as good as they are, even if my folks
don’t go to Miami every winter!”
Clyde ended rather breathlessly.
“I’m glad to hear you say that,” responded Barry, warmly. “Of course I
know that some of the fellows you mean are mighty nice, but a lot of
them don’t really amount to much, as far as I can see. They don’t study
if they can help it; they don’t play anything, usually; they pretend
that the school isn’t good enough for them and that they’re doing it a
favor by coming to it. They――they make me sort of ill!”
“Me, too,” growled Clyde. “And I’m off ’em. They won’t know me when I
go up to college, but I can live through it, I guess.”
“Some of them,” said Barry, shrewdly, “aren’t likely to get there――or
stay there if they do!”
“Hal’s as bad as any, too,” Clyde went on glumly. “He’s got the social
bug. Talks about folks I’ve never heard of, and reads the society bunk
in the papers every Sunday until I want to bean him.” He was silent
a moment and then added almost shyly: “Say, I don’t believe he will
stick with me after the holidays, Barry; not if I give up the gang,
anyway; and I was wondering whether you’d care to come over. It’s a
pretty good diggings, and it’s a lot more fun being on the campus, you
know. What do you say?”
“Why, thanks, Clyde, but I don’t believe I’d want to change. Not this
year, anyhow. Perhaps in the fall, if you don’t find some one else.”
“Well, you better think it over,” Clyde added, a trifle gruffly. “No
hurry about deciding.”
“I’ve already decided. For one thing, I’d hate to leave the Lyles with
an empty room on their hands, Clyde. They need the money, and if I got
out I don’t believe they’d be able to let again.”
“Yes,” said the other, dryly, “and for another thing there’s Crawford
Jones.”
“Yes,” assented Barry, evenly, “there’s Jones, too. He’s a fine chap,
Clyde. I wish you and he would quit being so down on each other.”
“Oh, I’ve got nothing against him――especial,” said Clyde, with
something of an effort. “I just don’t―― He’s so plaguey fond of
himself, hang him! Thinks he’s too good for any one――except you.
Besides, he hates me like poison.”
“Oh, no, he doesn’t!” laughed Barry. “You just think he does. I’ll bet
that if you and Peaches――”
There was a call from the cabin door, and the two arose and went back
toward the lights. Half-way across the grass Clyde said:
“Well, things are sort of cleared up between you and me, Barry, aren’t
they? I wish we could manage to get together a bit oftener. Of course,
I know you don’t like Hal much, but he’s out a good deal.”
“I’ll be glad to drop around oftener, Clyde, but you’ll have to do the
same. Lyles’ isn’t quite out of the world, you know!”
“No, of course not,” muttered the other. “Sure, I’ll come and see you.”
There was an hour before the big fireplace, the fellows seated on the
benches or on the floor in front of them. No one spoke of the morrow,
nor was football an approved subject of discourse. After a while
Sinclair and Pete Zosker produced banjos and singing began. To-night
the fellows’ taste ran to the old, well-known songs and they sang a
number of them before the Major suggested, glancing at his watch:
“Let’s have ‘Sunny Fields,’ fellows, and hit the hay.”
So they got to their feet, many sleepily, and the school song was sung
through, very feelingly; and Barry, for one, felt just a little weepy
and rather noble!
Breaking up, the throng strove to get back to its former mood of noisy
jollity, but it wasn’t wholly successful and many of the fellows sought
their bunks in silence. Skirting an overturned bench, Barry passed
close to where the Major and Mr. Graham were smoking ruminatively in
the firelight, and the former, glancing up, spoke.
“Oh, Locke, just a mo!” he said. “That letter business is cleared up.
Thought you’d like to know. Meant to tell you before, but forgot it.”
“Yes, sir,” said Barry, questioningly.
“No need of mentioning names, I guess. I――er――I’ve attended to the
chap. I gather, though, from what Jones says, that your suspect wasn’t
concerned.”
“Jones? You mean――Peaches, sir?”
“Yes. He took the matter up. Very glad to have him. Well, good night.”
CHAPTER XXIV
“LOCKE BACK!”
“Hoskins’s ball!” The referee, having waded knee-deep in the pile-up
of writhing players, placed the pigskin on the visitors’ twenty-seven
yards and skipped aside. “Third down! About six to go!”
Barry watched from the bench, a gray blanket draped about him. He
had been watching for upward of twenty-five anxious minutes during
which the ancient rivals had charged up and down the field with
scant advantage to either one. Near by sat Hall, substitute tackle,
chewing his knuckles and muttering to himself. On the other side, knee
touching Barry’s, sat Clyde. Beyond the latter, at the far end of
the bench, Major Loring and the two assistant coaches looked on with
expressionless faces and conversed in low tones at intervals.
Behind Barry the stand was close, and he could almost feel the cheers
beating against him. Before the start he had searched the rows and
found the Lyles half-way up the farther section, Mr. Benjy enormously
swaddled against the chill air, Mrs. Lyle looking quite young and
pretty, Betty with her eyes sparkling, roses in her cheeks, and a
valiant streamer of purple and gray ribbons pinned to her coat. He had
exchanged greetings, too, with Peaches and Mill. He hadn’t seen Peaches
to speak to since the day before, for, returning to school at a little
before twelve, they had been taken straight to the dining-hall for an
early luncheon and from there to the gymnasium, the Major guarding as
carefully against “foreign entanglements” as a New England statesman!
Barry had slept remarkably the night before. Only once had he awakened,
and then had stayed awake only long enough to stare sleepily back at
a twinkling star shining down at him through the open casement and to
pull the covers up over his head. In the morning the big, roaring fire
had been grateful indeed, and so, too, had Joey’s hot breakfast. At
nine o’clock they had assembled outside on the limited level of sparse
turf and gone through formations for an hour. If the previous evening
had tabooed football, this bright, frosty morning had tabooed all else.
When the work was over the Major had tossed a battered old ball to
Barry with:
“Let’s see how far you can kick it, Locke.”
“But we’ll lose it, sir!” The Major had shrugged.
“See that bunch of dark-red leaves down there? The trail’s just to the
right of it. See how close you can come to it.”
So Barry had stepped forward, nearly to the edge of the plateau, and
punted, and the old ball had shot away, first up across the tops of
the nearer trees and then down and down, to crash at last through
the branches far below. Barry had never expected to see that ball
again, but when, shortly after ten, they were going “down off,” as the
mountain folks said, the Major ranged aside from the trail for a few
moments and came back with the veteran pigskin under his arm!
Time had sped fast from the moment the train rattled into the Wessex
station. Excitement and confusion had reigned. Speeding through the
village, they had raised an approving shout wherever a patriotic――and
canny――tradesman had hung the purple-and-gray. Already alien hues were
to be seen, too, for forerunners of the invading army from Fairmount
were straggling about the streets, displaying dark-blue arm-bands
adorned with a golden H. Barry had not cared much for luncheon. He told
himself that was because he had eaten so heartily barely more than
four hours before. Perhaps it was. Perhaps, too, the fact that he was
just a mite frightened and more than a mite nervous had something to do
with it.
In the gymnasium they had dressed in a leisurely manner, they and the
players who had not made the trip to the cabin, and then had gathered
in a corner of the locker-room and listened to Mr. Graham and Mr.
Mears and Captain Buckley, and, last of all, and more intently, to the
Major. The Major hadn’t said much; his remarks had occupied less than
five minutes, perhaps; but what he had said was still fresh in Barry’s
memory.
They were not to reflect on what Hoskins had done that fall, said the
Major. They were not to compare records, nor heed the “bunk” the papers
printed. What had happened was past. What concerned them was only what
was going to happen.
“You’ve got to play hard, you’ve got to _fight_!” the coach concluded.
“If you do what I know you can do, you’ll win. You’re playing on your
own field; you’ve got the whole school right behind you; you’ve got the
plays you need. And――by glory!――I think you’ve got the spirit! _Have
you?_”
Barry could still hear the sudden, high-pitched shout that had
followed, could still feel the thrill of the moment. They had trotted
out a minute later, exalted, eager for the test. And now they were
meeting it. It was hard to believe that the big moment of the season
was here, that within the next hour and a half the decision would be
reached; the decision that would say whether all the hard work and hard
knocks, all the planning and strategies of the past two months had won
or failed. Only now did Barry realize how intensely he had been hoping
for success, was still hoping, and would continue to hope until, in the
first shadows of twilight, the last whistle should blow. The thought of
defeat was accompanied by a sudden nausea, a painful cold sinking of
the heart. He had never known before how much a victory could mean!
The whistle brought the first quarter to an end and the teams repaired
to the side-lines, for water. Broadmoor began, “Don’t Be Rough,”
while across the field the blue-and-orange decked stand broke into
the famous Doctor Song. “Doctor! Hurry, Doctor! The patient’s very
low!” floated across, and Barry scowled ferociously until the strains
behind him gathered volume and the rival’s wailing plea was drowned.
The game started again, Broadmoor now with her back to the north
goal and favored by the light, chill breeze. The day had begun with
clear sunshine and little wind, but by two o’clock clouds had begun to
gather, and now, for minutes at a time, the sun was hidden. The breeze
seemed to be increasing as the afternoon wore on, and already coat
collars were being turned up and at times the tramp-tramp of chilled
feet kept time to the cheering.
There had been but little kicking in the first period, both teams
clinging to the ball until obliged to punt. Now, holding the slight
advantage afforded by the breeze, Broadmoor used Tip Cartright
repeatedly, sometimes as early as a second down, hoping, doubtless, for
a break in the shape of a fumble to bring her to scoring distance. But
Hoskins played safe, making fair catches once or twice, once or twice
letting the ball hit the ground. Broadmoor started an advance that
swept as far as the enemy’s forty-one yards, where Demille was thrown
for a loss and two subsequent attempts outside tackles left the home
team well short of her distance. Cartright punted from his forty-eight
to Hoskins’s seven and a swift-footed back ran the ball to the
sixteen before Larry Smythe dropped him. Hoskins gained nine yards on
Ellingham, using a tricky delayed pass, and got more than her distance
off Captain Buckley on the next play. Another smash at the line and a
wide run put the ball on the twenty-five. There, however, Broadmoor
stiffened and three attempts yielded Hoskins but seven yards and she
punted out on the opponent’s forty-eight.
“Locke!” called the Major. “Go in for Cartright. And keep your mouth
shut.”
Barry shed his blanket and ran across, hand upraised. With a sour grin
Tip yielded his head-guard. Broadmoor took up the journey again. There
was still all of five minutes left of the half. Zinn stole around right
tackle for a bare two yards and Haviland got three through center. On
the next play Harris was off-side and the ball went back to the enemy’s
forty-seven.
“Locke back!” called Zinn.
The next few minutes proved the value of advertising. Hoskins had read
the newspapers and thought she knew all about Locke: that he had done
sixty yards frequently in practice; that Broadmoor had been trying to
keep him under cover; that he was dangerous. Oh, you couldn’t catch Old
Hoskins napping! Had he thought of it, Barry might have felt flattered
at seeing how far back the safety men played! But the Blue-and-Orange
wasn’t any too certain that Broadmoor meant to punt on third down, and
it didn’t open its defense more than it had to. But still, Demille,
to whom the ball went, managed to get back that five yards that the
penalty had cost and a foot or so more.
Fourth down now, and again Barry was called back. He knew the ball
wasn’t to reach him, but he didn’t let any one else know it. He set his
feet solidly, cast an appraising eye down the field, and held out his
arms. Then Pete Zosker sped the ball back to Haviland, Haviland passed
it swiftly to Larry Smythe, and Larry, dodging this way and that,
eluded the enemy craftily, crossed the forty-two yards at full-tilt and
kept right on to the thirty-one. And Broadmoor arose in the east stand
and went quite crazy!
Locke back again! And this time the ball was his. But he didn’t
kick it. He put it under his arm and sped to the left, a wall of
interference between him and the foe, turned in at last and crashed
straight into the arms of the Hoskins right tackle; and as the latter
was about forty pounds heavier than Barry, the play stopped right
there! But Barry had added another yard and a half and once more took
up kicking position. Hoskins perhaps began to wonder whether or not
this Locke fellow really could kick! Barry began to wonder, too, for
on the next play it was Johnny Zinn who knifed through center, after
nursing the pigskin a moment, and was downed on the twenty-six; very
much downed, indeed, since a third of the Hoskins tribe managed to
assemble on top of him before the whistle blew!
It took all the permitted time to bring Johnny back to normalcy, during
which a steady uproar arose from the Broadmoor side of the field. Along
the side-line over there Ike Boardman was sprinting up and down. But
presently Ike resumed his blanket, for Johnny wasn’t at all dead. Third
down now and still almost five to go; and Hoskins, pushed back to her
twenty-five-yard line, desperately resolved to take no more fooling!
Once again Johnny’s hoarse voice called, “Locke back!” and Barry took
up his position close to the thirty-five. Hoskins, puzzled, doubting,
watched sharply. The ball went to Barry and he swung his leg. But not
until he had made a lateral pass to Larry Smythe. Barry didn’t see much
of the ensuing events, for he was on his back for several instants.
When he found his feet again, Larry was just rolling across the
goal-line in the farther corner of the field. A Hoskins player rolled
with him, while several more seemed extremely disturbed because they
had arrived just too late to take part in the frolic!
Pandemonium broke loose and Broadmoor cheers filled the air. Eleven
gray-jerseyed youths cavorted about the trampled turf, one of them
indulging in a series of startling handsprings,――it was Leary, who
was talented that way,――and a referee with carefully expressionless
countenance deposited the ball in front of the goal on the three-yard
line. Perhaps Johnny should have chosen to add the point by a drop-kick
or placement; or even by a forward-pass; but Johnny felt pretty cocky
just then, pretty confident, and he handed the ball to Ira Haviland
and Ira took a plunge at the Hoskins line. When the dust of battle had
somewhat settled it became apparent that Ira had fallen just two inches
short of his goal!
The big full-back acted then as if he had foully murdered his aged
grandmother, or indulged in some equally reprehensible crime, and would
not be comforted. All the way back up the field he kept muttering:
“Two inches! Two inches!” And sometimes: “Wouldn’t that make you
sick?” The fact that the score-board displayed a big 6 opposite the
word Broadmoor, while the corresponding space below was still empty,
brought him no joy now. “Two inches!”
Hoskins kicked off, Ellingham caught the weak attempt, and a whistle
blew. The half was over. Walking across the turf to the gymnasium,
Barry was a prey to conflicting emotions. Broadmoor had scored, and
for that he was glad indeed. But, although he had played a full five
minutes and had five times stood in kicking position, only a measly
yard or so was to his credit! He was a punter, and they hadn’t let him
touch a foot to the ball! There was something wrong there. Joy was
heavily tinctured with regret!
CHAPTER XXV
ZO PLAYS
Mr. Banks kept Zo at his violin lesson later than the latter had feared
he would, and it was nearly three o’clock when the boy reached the
field and, not without difficulty, found a seat in the very last tier.
Grudging occupants, resentful of disturbance, drew together to allow
him something less than the sixteen inches to which he was supposed to
be entitled. As he was wearing a thick mackinaw and must find space for
his violin-case, he felt somewhat crowded. Still, being wedged in had
one advantage: it made for warmth; and the top row of the stand was a
chilly place that afternoon. He wished that he had had sense enough to
leave his violin at Mr. Banks’s. Being accustomed to taking it with him
after his lessons, he had given it no thought. Putting it between his
legs was a comfortable solution, but if, in the excitement of the game,
he should jump up, the case and contents would doubtless slip between
the planking and fall to the ground. He finally laid it obliquely
across his knees, to the evident annoyance of his right-hand neighbor,
and fixed eager eyes on the contest.
He witnessed Barry’s rather dramatic entrance on the scene and took
whole-souled part in the two short cheers: “Rah, rah! Cartright!
Rah, rah! Locke!” After that, until the half ended, he forgot
everything but the game, and thrilled as only an ardent lover of
football and a zealous patriot can. He almost lost his violin when the
Purple-and-Gray’s left end went over for the touchdown, springing to
his feet in unison with those below and beside him and shouting shrilly
until his throat ached. Between halves he tried putting his hands in
his pockets, but as surely as he did so some restless youth decided to
pass him and so they must be taken out again to clutch the violin-case.
He was glad when, having listened with impatient politeness while
Hoskins sang rousingly about how “Hoskins heroes never yield,” Billy
Bassett, cheer captain, lifted his purple megaphone to his mouth again
and demanded: “‘Hey Diddle Diddle,’ fellows! Every one into it! Make a
noise. _Come on!_”
Clasping his burden to his chest, Zo stood and sang at the top of his
lungs, stamping chilled feet in time to the merry strains. “Hey Diddle
Diddle” was a warming song, for you clapped your hands together at the
end of every second line of the rollicking chorus. A long “Broadmoor”
followed, and then, quite unexpectedly, the teams were back and the
real cheering started!
Broadmoor began the second half with the same line-up she had started
with. Tip Cartright was back at right half, and Barry was once more on
the bench. As though persuaded by recent events that she had only to
take what she wanted, the home team wrested the ball from the opponent
soon after the kick-off and started a sturdy march up the field. Nearly
every play in the repertoire of the Purple-and-Gray was used during
that advance; and Broadmoor reached the foe’s thirty-two yards before
Demille, skirting the Hoskins end, was brought down by a husky enemy
back with such a crash that the ball got away from him and was captured
by the defender.
One plunge that netted two yards or so, and Hoskins sent off a long
forward-pass that went beautifully and brought the warriors to
mid-field. Very promptly Broadmoor became not the attacker but the
defender. Hoskins launched an offensive operation that brought alarm
to the audience in the east stand and caused Zo to squirm and writhe
in impotent dismay. The Blue-and-Orange seemed at last to get her
attack working right and, with a much-touted left half-back bearing the
brunt of the burden, crashed and plowed her way by short but sufficient
gains to the Broadmoor twenty-two yards before the Purple-and-Gray
recovered from her surprise sufficiently to stem the invasion. At the
last Broadmoor stiffened and two surges at her line were repulsed for
virtually no gain.
By this time there had been three changes in the Broadmoor line-up.
Zinn, rather groggy, had given place to Ike Boardman, Follen was at
right end instead of Harris, and Kirkland occupied the post beside
him. Hoskins faked a kick and shot a short pass over the left side of
the line which grounded. Followed a conference, and then, postponing a
touchdown for the time, the quarter patted the turf some eight yards
back of his center and knelt beside the spot. Broadmoor made a heroic
effort to crash through and smear that kick, but she failed and the
ball sailed from the thirty-yard line straight across the bar, and the
figure 3 appeared on the score-board beneath Broadmoor’s 6.
For the rest of that quarter Hoskins, having tasted blood, raged like a
devouring lion. But once a forward-pass fell into Demille’s hands and
averted a possible disaster, and once, well inside Broadmoor territory
again, a penalty for holding set the visitors back and necessitated a
punt. The third quarter ended with the ball in Hoskins’s possession on
her own forty-one yards.
Just before the end of the period Major Loring arose from his place
near the end of the bench and seated himself beside Barry. For several
minutes he talked in low tones, while Barry, staring thoughtfully
ahead, nodded at intervals. When time was called Barry shed his blanket
and walked to where the referee was guarding the newly placed ball.
“Locke, right half-back, sir,” he announced.
“Broadmoor right half out,” called the official as the men gathered.
Cartright yielded his head-guard silently and limped off to a welcoming
cheer. Ike Boardman the irrepressible winked genially at Barry as he
passed on his way back. Barry grinned, rather nervously. Hoskins took
up her task once more, shooting her demon half-back at every angle and
getting four, five, sometimes six yards at a time until she neared the
thirty. There the advance slowed and finally paused, and when a tricky
double-pass had failed to gain, the Blue-and-Orange tried a desperate
venture. The ball was on Broadmoor’s thirty-three yards, and the wind,
now blowing strongly, was against the attacker. Nevertheless, Hoskins
elected to try a placement kick. The stands grew silent as the Hoskins
kicker went slowly back and the quarter settled himself to take the
pass from center, so silent that Ike Boardman’s hoarse challenge was
heard plainly.
“Get through ’em, Broadmoor! Smear ’em up! Block this kick! Fight, you
guys! fight, I tell you! Block it! Block it!”
The ball touched the ground just short of the forty-yard line and
although Broadmoor did plow through desperately and nearly spoiled the
attempt, the pigskin sailed safely above the upstretched hands of the
leaping enemy and straight for the goal. It went well above the bar
and past the posts, and the Broadmoor adherents in the stand endured
a miserable moment of anxiety until an official waved negatively.
Then relief expressed itself in a mighty shout. The wind that at
first seemed to favor the brave enterprise had turned traitor at the
last instant and whisked the ball just outside the left-hand upright!
Hoskins deserved that field-goal, for the attempt had been a gallant
one and well executed. But such jests of Fortune are common enough in
football, and the loser learns not to complain. Hoskins felt the blow
but scorned discouragement.
Two drives at the Blue-and-Orange center yielded six yards, and then
Barry was sent back and punted. With the wind behind him he became
in reality the fabled “Punting ace,” for the ball went well over the
heads of the Hoskins backs and rolled to their twelve yards before it
was recovered. Had Larry Smythe been in fresher condition or Follen
a faster end, the game might have been decided then and there, for
the Hoskins quarter had difficulty in capturing the bobbing oval. But
as it was, the ball was safely downed when Larry settled against the
quarter’s head. Hoskins, on the first play, got a back around Follen’s
end for nine yards. Blue-and-Orange pennants flapped in the wind and
Hoskins cheers boomed forth. The enemy was again on her way!
Straight to mid-field she went, Broadmoor fighting hard but
unsuccessfully to stay the rush. Hoskins swept across the half-way
line with a twelve-yard forward-pass, sent an end around the enemy’s
left for six more, and finally made it first down on the Broadmoor’s
thirty-seven. The minutes were ticking away fast, but not fast enough
for the watching friends of the home team.
Up on the top row of the wind-swept east stand, Zo Fessenden shook
with cold and excitement. Many of his erstwhile companions had deserted
him for the more sheltered ground below, and now he was able to lay his
instrument beside him and, his hands in his pockets, stamp and shiver
and shake unencumbered. His teeth chattered whenever he parted them
to cheer or groan. Just now groans were more frequent than cheers,
for the east stand had grown ominously silent. There was something so
inexorable in the way in which the enemy tore off her gains that even
the optimistic grew faint-hearted. Broadmoor was fighting gallantly,
savagely, yielding ground grudgingly enough, but Broadmoor appeared to
have lost some of her coherence; some of her spirit, too; and while
the west stand kept up an unceasing riot of sound, the efforts of the
Broadmoor cheerleaders met with but a sorry response.
Once it was necessary to measure with the chain to determine whether or
not Hoskins had gained her distance, but Fate was good to her and the
referee waved her on. Every one realized that Hoskins would not try for
a field-goal short of a fourth down, for a field-goal would only tie
the score and Hoskins ached for a victory. And so when she presently
went through the motions of staging a try from placement, none of the
enemy team was fooled and the wide run around the end that eventuated
was stopped for a yard loss. This time Broadmoor had something to cheer
for, and she made the most of the opportunity. Yet, before she had
ceased, Hoskins had punched through Ellingham for three more.
Goof, weary and battered, was called out and Hal Stearns went in.
Sinclair, too, was taken out, but despite the fresher warriors Hoskins
crept on to the sixteen. It was as though the defenders sensed defeat
then. In spite of Captain Buck’s entreaties, in spite of Ike Boardman’s
threats, in spite of themselves, discouragement weakened the efforts of
every player. They didn’t mean to weaken, didn’t want to, didn’t know
that they did, but the fact that they had lost faith in themselves was
evident. It was evident even to Zo, shivering up there in the chill
gloom of early twilight. Zo saw and realized and hated the knowledge.
He shouted encouragement at the height of his shrill young voice, not
caring that he shouted almost alone. He saw the invader draw closer and
closer to that distant last white line, and so, finally, driven to it
by some inner impulse, with trembling fingers he opened the case beside
him, lifted out his violin, and, standing, drew the bow across the
strings.
At first heads turned and faces scowled or grinned at the slim figure
standing back up there outlined against the gray sky. Then a low voice
started the words and others joined. One by one, then by dozens, the
fellows arose to numbed feet, and the volume grew. Zo had chosen the
school song. Perhaps it was no great composition, but the slow, tuneful
music welled sweetly from his instrument, clear above the sounds of the
field, and stilled at last the noisy triumph of the farther stand. The
players heard it, too, and thrilled to it. By the time Zo had played
it through once and started again every voice on the east side of the
gridiron was singing the words. Solemnly, sweetly, the last verse fell
over the field:
“Sunny fields, in memory you stretch before my eyes.
You are smiling at me under azure skies.
I can see the river winding once again
And the shadows moving slowly o’er the plain.
Sunny fields of Broadmoor, back with you I’d be,
Back among old comrades ever dear to me.
Always I’ll remember, always I will praise
Sunny fields of Broadmoor; happy, happy days.”
The song ended, Zo’s bow held long on the last clear note; and as it
died to silence, silence held the stands. Then a great burst of sound
came: applause, hearty, sincere, and sympathetic, from across the
wind-swept field; acclaim, ecstatic and passionate, from the home
stand; a burst of sound that went on and on and grew higher and higher
and presently became a thunderous repetition of one word:
“_Broadmoor! Broadmoor! Broadmoor! Broadmoor! Broadmoor!_”
And down in front of the north goal, wearied and battered but believing
again, eleven heroes dug their cleats on the four yards and wrested the
ball from the enemy!
CHAPTER XXVI
THE RIGHT SORT
Time was called and both teams ministered to casualties. Major Loring
seized the opportunity to take out Demille and substitute Logan.
Hoskins called in a new left tackle. Not quite two minutes remained
when the whistle blew again, and Broadmoor was not yet out of the
woods. Captain Buckley and Ike Boardman had conferred during the pause,
and now Boardman shouted: “Let’s go, Broadmoor! Locke back! Forty-four,
forty-eight, ninety-one!”
Barry, a half-dozen strides from the nearer post and a full seven
yards behind the goal-line, held his arms forth. The two lines smashed
together as the ball shot back and Barry swung a leg through empty
air. Logan, the ball hugged to his stomach, dived behind Haviland and
crossbucked between Sinclair and Kirkland. But Hoskins was firm and
less than a yard was gained.
“Second down!” sung the referee. “About nine!”
“Locke back! Make it good, Barry! Signals!”
“Block it!” Hoskins’s captain limped along his line, slapping his men.
“Block this kick, fellows! Let’s get that score! Get into it! _Fight!_”
“_Hold, Broadmoor!_” shouted the throng that, deserting the stand, had
clustered along the side-line to the left. “_Hold, Broadmoor! Hold,
Broadmoor!_”
“_Block that kick! Block that kick!_” chanted the crowd across the
field.
The ball left the hands of Pete Zosker and traveled toward Barry. But
Pete had committed his one fault of the game. The pass was straight
but short and the pigskin struck the ground a yard away. Barry got it
on the bound, but already the enemy was breaking through. There was no
time to steady himself and kick. He thought quickly in that instant,
weighing the chances. Then he slipped the ball into the crook of his
elbow, turned right, and dashed away, past the nearer goal-post,
running parallel to the boundary. Tumult filled the air, but he heard
nothing save the hoarse shout of Haviland, almost at his elbow: “In!
In!” Barry turned, digging his cleats hard, and shot toward the
goal-line. To be stopped short of it would mean the end of everything!
Haviland mowed down a foe just as Barry reached the almost obliterated
mark. A blue-sleeved body charged against him and hands fell about his
shoulders, but he swerved and the clutch only swung him to the left,
and he staggered across the line, fell, arose again, took another
stride, and was hauled to earth.
When the ball was uncovered it lay not quite three yards inside.
Breathless, Barry found himself leaning against Pete Zosker’s ample
form, and Pete was saying huskily, contritely:
“Gee, kid! I’m sorry! Next time you’ll get it right!”
Indeed, next time it must be right, for now, when Barry had again
stepped back, one of the goal-posts loomed threateningly close. It
would be no hard matter to crash the ball against it, and if he did,
almost anything might happen. It was third down now and ten to go.
This time Pete sent the ball perfectly and Barry, fighting the impulse
to hurry the punt, poised the pigskin carefully, almost deliberately,
stepped forward, and kicked.
But the ball didn’t clear the line. A Hoskins forward had fought his
way through and against his upflung arm the ball struck and bounded
aside, to the left. Shrieks of triumph, of desperate alarm arose.
“_Ball! Ball!_” A dozen frantic players turned in pursuit. But the
chase was between Barry and a Hoskins back, and it was Barry who
won. The pigskin, bouncing erratically this way and that, maintained
a general course toward the side-line between the first two white
streaks, and it was still bobbing along when Barry, a split-second
ahead of his adversary, dropped to the turf and gathered it to him.
The enemy crashed down upon him, driving the breath from his body,
wrenching grimly the prize. But Barry as grimly held on. A second foe,
close on the heels of the first, landed, and Barry felt a swift jab of
pain strike through an ankle just as the whistle shrilled.
Some one took the ball from him and some one else jerked him erect,
gibbering praise. A great hand smote him between the shoulders and a
harsh but jubilant voice said:
“Great work, Locke! Oh, great work, boy!”
Barry grimaced into Buck’s grimy countenance. He meant to smile, but
the throbbing in his ankle turned the smile into a painful leer.
“Want time?” demanded the captain, anxiously. “What’s wrong?”
“No,” Barry panted. “I guess I turned my ankle. I’m all right.” He
detached himself from Boardman’s sustaining grasp and took a tentative
step, and another. As he had purposely turned his face away from the
two, they didn’t see his brows contract as he put his weight on that
left foot. Well, after all, it wasn’t so bad. If he favored it a very
little he scarcely had to limp. Captain Buckley looked doubtful, but
Ike only said:
“Ata boy! Come on! Let’s get out of this! Hey, how much time, Mr.
Referee?”
A hovering official answered:
“Forty seconds, Broadmoor! Forty seconds, Hoskins!”
Barry grinned resolutely as he once more and for the last time went
back to kicking position. The grin was necessary. It was grin or
grimace, for something was plainly wrong with that left foot of his. It
hurt like the dickens if he even put it to the ground. Going back had
to be done carefully, for if the Major saw, or the trainer, they’d want
to know all about it; and what they didn’t know wasn’t going to hurt
them. Some one had to kick out of there, and no else could, now that
Tip Cartright was gone and couldn’t come back. Barry chose his station
very carefully, tested that throbbing foot, and once more waited for
the ball. This was Broadmoor’s last chance.
Again Pete Zosker shot the pigskin back accurately, and again the lines
crashed together. Hoskins, too, faced her last chance. If she could
block this punt as she had the last, she might, even if Broadmoor
recovered, smash across that one short yard to a touchdown and victory.
But this time the Purple-and-Gray held and Barry punted unhurriedly.
There was an instant of fierce shooting pain as he put all his weight
on the injured foot while the other swung along its long arc, but he
gritted his teeth and went through with it. Leather met leather and
the ball bounded away, well above the waving hands of the desperate,
plunging foe, up into the path of the north wind, and then, lazily
turning in its flight, sailed far down the field, while blue legs and
gray legs started in pursuit.
Barry watched a moment from the ground, for, having punted, he had
dropped in his tracks while a Hoskins forward hurdled over him. It
was a great relief to sit there, but he mustn’t do it. Somewhere well
beyond the middle of the field the ball had settled into the arms of
a player and Broadmoor, converging, was hurrying toward it. Barry got
weakly to his feet and set off. He made no effort to hide the limp now.
He had done his part. If they wanted to bench him, they might.
But none seemed to heed him. The Hoskins quarter had been run outside
at the fifty-yard line. Broadmoor had called time and Major Loring was
sending in substitutes as fast as he could call their names: Patterson,
Sisson, Van Brunt, Hall, Brush, Allen, Cruger. The milling throng along
the eastern border cheered busily. Thad Brush waved Barry back as the
latter slowly approached the group.
“We’ll play it safe!” he called. “Only sixteen seconds left. Watch for
a forward!”
Barry hobbled back, the new quarter still excitedly chattering as they
found their positions half-way to the goal. Barry wished the whistle
would blow. It did at last. Beyond the widespread Broadmoor line the
enemy scuttled this way and that, the ball passing from one to another.
An end darted around Follen and came tearing down the field. Shrill
cries of warning arose. The ball, uncertain in the gathering twilight,
hurtled from beyond the confusion of running forms and Barry started
into action. Behind him, gaining on his limping team-mate, sped Thad
Brush. Barry, Hoskins end, and pigskin met close to the side-line.
Barry was not there soon enough to spoil a splendid catch of a
wonderful throw, for the long-legged end pulled the ball from the air
and turned to run before Barry launched himself.
He missed his tackle, for one doesn’t leap accurately from an injured
foot, but he sent the runner staggering out of bounds and, although the
latter would have treated that fact as of no consequence, and took up
his flight once more, a whistle blew, an official dug a heel into the
turf, a horn tooted discordantly, and the game was over!
Broadmoor flooded the field, a pushing, shouting army of joy-crazed
youths. Banners swirled, hats soared. Caught in the maelstrom, Barry
demurred, begged, entreated, but he was quickly hoisted aloft to go
bobbing across the field on the shoulders of four bareheaded, shouting
fellows, his left foot dangling painfully, his countenance set in a
resolute grin. On the score-board the white 6 and the white 3 showed
only dimly in the dusk.
* * * * *
Barry lay in bed. Well, not quite that, either, for although his
bath-robe had taken the place of his outer garments and a spread
was pulled up to his shoulders, he could not be said to have wholly
retired. Down there toward the foot of the bed his left ankle, swathed
in bandages, grumbled ceaselessly. But it didn’t shoot with hot pains
as it had during that journey home between Peaches and Ira Haviland.
Ira had been almost laughably solicitous. One might have thought that a
sprained ankle was a fatal injury! At intervals Ira had declared with
emphasis:
“You done noble, young feller, I’ll tell the squint-eyed world! You’re
the hen’s chin, Locke!”
And now, having eaten not very heartily of Mrs. Lyle’s supper, he
stared contentedly at the single globe that partially illumined the
room and thought. Gee! there was plenty to think of! The game with
its glorious outcome, the cheering afterward, the Major’s painful
hand-clasp and his brief, “Nice work, Locke!” The trainer’s scolding
as he ministered to the sprained ankle, the walk home, his arms around
the shoulders of his companions and that silly-looking foot swaying
back and forth. Yes, and of Mr. Benjy timorously appearing to inquire
as to his comfort, and Mrs. Lyle at his heels, dropping sympathetic,
unfinished sentences. Of Davy and Betty, the former trying to express
admiration for Barry’s playing and gratitude for his share in solving
the mystery of the lost bond and getting the two oddly mixed while
Betty laughed and tried to think of something to add to the invalid’s
comfort. The best that Betty could do was to rob Toby of one of his
pillows and insist that Barry have it behind him; and Barry, rather
than disappoint her, allowed it there even though it was distinctly
uncomfortable.
He had had scant time to talk to Peaches, for Haviland had taken things
into his own hands, personally depriving Barry of his outer garments
and getting him on the bed, holding forth on varied subjects connected
with the game meanwhile. Then he had dragged Peaches out of the room
with him.
“He needs rest,” declared Ira. “Sleep. Yeah, you go to sleep, kid.
That’s what you need――sleep. I’ll come and see how you’re getting along
to-morrow. You done noble, I’ll tell the squint-eyed world!”
Remembering, Barry smiled. Well, he hoped he had “done noble.” At
least well. He wished Peaches would come back from supper, for he had
questions to ask. Then, as though in answer to that wish, the outer
door opened below and footsteps sounded on the stairs. Some one,
though, was with Peaches. Barry could tell it from the noise. The some
one was Clyde.
A minute later Barry was saying:
“Pshaw! I’ve only got to stay in a couple of days! I’ll be skipping
around as good as new next week.” Clyde looked relieved. Peaches told
of the bonfire that was building over on the marsh, of incidents
happening during supper.
Clyde broke in with:
“Wish you could have been there, Barry. You’ve never heard such a riot
in your life! The Doctor had to come in and stop it, finally. No one
else could!”
Presently Barry managed to get in one of the questions he wanted to ask:
“Shut up a minute, will you, Peaches? Listen now. How did you find out
about Rusty Waterman?”
Peaches grinned, hugged a knee, and cheerfully explained:
“It was easy to one of my acumen. In the first place, I couldn’t
quite believe that Allen here had written that thing. It didn’t look
plausible, somehow. So I went to the Major and asked to see the letter.
He said I could take it along if I’d sleuth about a bit. Well, the
first thing I did was to call on Whitwell. He had sold that typewriter
to Allen, you see, and I wanted to find out if he had sold another one
that printed the B out of alignment. When I got to his room in Meddill
I discovered that he roomed with Rusty. That’s when I had a hunch.
Well, Whitwell said that one machine was the only one that was crazy
and that he had meant to try and fix it before he left it with Allen.
“‘I noticed it one day last week, when Rusty was playing with it,’ he
said. ‘I didn’t play with it,’ growled Rusty. ‘Sure you did! You wrote
a letter or something on it. Don’t you remember? Sunday; wasn’t it?’
I caught Rusty’s eye just then and I said, ‘Rusty, the coach wants to
talk with you.’ Well, he blustered and said he didn’t have time to
see Loring, and what was it all about, anyway? But he did come along,
finally, and the Major put him through the third degree, to the king’s
taste. Rusty caved and came clean. Said he wanted to get square with
you for something you’d done. Said he had taken a carbon of the letter
and was going to mail it to the Major when it looked like the first
part of the plot had flivvered, but he got cold feet. Something must
have tipped him off that all was not well.”
“I know what it was,” broke in Clyde. “He was with me the day I found
that note about L. having heard from P. I couldn’t make head nor tail
of it and showed it to him. He said he couldn’t, either, but I guess he
did!”
“What did the Major say to him?” asked Barry.
“The Major,” replied Peaches, grimly, “said a plenty! Say, there’s
one thing the army does for you, fellows: it gives you a perfectly
grand command of language! I guess the Major used most of his before
he got through. Rusty looked like a wilted turnip. Finally the Major
said he wasn’t going to take the matter to faculty as long as Rusty
behaved himself, and after that, just when the poor guy was recovering
his――his――you say it, Barry.”
“Equanimity.”
“Thanks. Recovering his equanimity, the Major informed him that he was
out of football for this year, next year, and all the years to come, or
words to that effect! That got Rusty, and he pleaded hard, but Coach
wouldn’t listen to him; just opened the door.”
“I wish,” Clyde said, preparing to depart, “you fellows would drop
around at my diggings sometimes.”
“Surely will,” answered Peaches, politely. “And there’s nothing to keep
you from coming here once in a while, Allen, is there?”
“Why, no; no indeed! I’ll do that, of course. Well, see you later,
Barry. Don’t――”
“Hold on a minute,” interrupted Barry. “Is that a bargain, you two?”
“Bargain?” asked Clyde.
“Yes, that you’ll come here and Peaches will go with me to see you. Is
it?”
“As far as I’m concerned,” answered Clyde, a trifle stiffly.
“Same here,” said Peaches, slyly enjoying the situation.
“Well, then,” pursued Barry, looking from one to the other, “suppose
you shake hands on it.”
“Piffle,” muttered Clyde, looking much embarrassed.
“Well,” said Peaches, “just to oblige a dying friend, Allen!”
Although his eyes danced, he gravely avoided Barry’s smile as he and
Clyde clasped hands across the bed.
* * * * *
At the same moment Major Loring and “Jonah” Mears, sitting before a
crackling fire in the coach’s room, talked and smoked in a comfortable,
well-earned leisure. They had discussed the game exhaustively, and now
conversation had become more desultory, broken by periods of silence.
“That young Locke was a lucky find,” said Mr. Mears, musingly.
The Major smiled.
“More than a find, Jonah,” he replied; “a discovery.”
“Yes.” The other refilled his pipe slowly. “Yes, and I like the
youngster’s style. He’s got real football spirit. Handles himself
pretty, too. Of course, he’s young yet, and light; give him another
twenty pounds――”
“Give him another year,” said the coach, softly, “and then watch him!
Barry Locke has the stuff they used to make knights of, and crusaders;
the stuff that nowadays makes football heroes. I wish I had a few more
like him, Jonah. He――” the Major gently tapped his pipe against an
andiron――“he’s the right sort.”
* * * * *
Transcriber’s Notes:
――Text in italics is enclosed by underscores (_italics_).
――Punctuation and spelling inaccuracies were silently corrected.
――Archaic and variable spelling has been preserved.
――Variations in hyphenation and compound words have been preserved.
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