The Turner Twins
by Ralph Henry Barbour · English · Gutenberg #37209 · 357,970 chars · public domain (US)
The Project Gutenberg eBook of The Turner Twins
This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and
most other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions
whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms
of the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online
at www.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States,
you will have to check the laws of the country where you are located
before using this eBook.
Title: The Turner Twins
Author: Ralph Henry Barbour
Illustrator: C. M. Relyea
Release date: August 26, 2011 [eBook #37209]
Most recently updated: November 29, 2023
Language: English
Other information and formats: www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/37209
Credits: Produced by Roger Frank and the Online Distributed
Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net
*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE TURNER TWINS ***
Produced by Roger Frank and the Online Distributed
Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net
[Illustration: Through the secret door]
THE
TURNER TWINS
BY
RALPH HENRY BARBOUR
Author of “The Crimson Sweater,” “Harry’s Island,”
“Team-Mates,” etc.
ILLUSTRATED BY
C. M. RELYEA
NEW YORK
THE CENTURY CO.
1922
Copyright, 1921, 1922, by
The Century Co.
PRINTED IN THE U. S. A.
CONTENTS
CHAPTER PAGE
I Introduces a Pair of Shoes 3
II The Girl in the White Middy 13
III Cakes and Ale 28
IV Kewpie Starts Something 37
V In the Performance of Duty 52
VI Ned is Firm 61
VII High School Accepts Defeat 70
VIII In the Miser’s House 84
IX Laurie Hears News 98
X Polly Entertains 110
XI Ned Speaks Out 120
XII The Committee on Arrangements 130
XIII Ned Gets into the Game 141
XIV The Fete 154
XV Ned Has an Idea 170
XVI Polly Tells a Spook Story 179
XVII Laurie Makes a Protest 190
XVIII Before the Battle 201
XIX Ned is Missing 213
XX For the Honor of the Turners 223
XXI The Understudy 238
XXII The Boys Make a Present 250
XXIII The Secret Passage 262
XXIV A Merry Christmas 272
LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS
LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS
Through the secret door Frontispiece
“Hello, fellows! Salutations and everything!” 36
“But don’t you think almanacs make mistakes sometimes?” asked Polly 136
“Turner. Guess he’s going to kick a goal for ’em.” 240
THE TURNER TWINS
CHAPTER I—INTRODUCES A PAIR OF HEROES
“Jail,” said the boy in the gray flannels.
“School,” pronounced the boy in the blue serge.
“Bet you!”
“No, sir, you owe me ten cents now. You didn’t pay up the last time.”
“It’s wrong to bet for money, Ned.”
The other set down the suitcase he was carrying and scoffed. “Yes, when
you lose,” he observed, with deep sarcasm. “That’s thirty-five cents you
owe me. You bet in Chicago that—”
“That debt’s outlawed. Chicago’s in Michigan—”
“Bet you!”
“And this is New York, and so—”
“Mighty good thing Dad sent you to school, Laurie. Chicago’s in
Illinois, you ignoramus.”
“Is it? Well, who cares?” Laurence Stenman Turner had also deposited the
bag he was carrying on the brick sidewalk and was applying a
lavender-bordered handkerchief to a moist brow. “Just the same, that’s a
jail.”
“If that’s a jail, I’ll eat my hat,” declared the other,
“It’s not a school, though, and that’s flat,” was the prompt retort.
“Huh, that was an easy one!” Edward Anderson Turner retreated to a
flat-topped stone wall bordering a well-shaded lawn and seated himself
with a sigh of relief. His companion followed suit. Behind them, grass
and trees and flower beds made a pleasant setting for a square gray
house, half hidden from the street. Overhead a horse-chestnut tree
spread low branches across the sidewalk. The quiet village street
ascended gently, curving as it went, empty in both directions. Somewhere
on a neighboring thoroughfare a scissors-grinder was punctuating the
silence with the musical _ding—dang—dong_ of bells. In a near-by tree
a locust was making his shrill clatter. Across the way, the subject of
contention, stood a large red-brick edifice, stone trimmed, many
windowed, costly and unlovely. The boys viewed it silently. Then their
glances fell to the two black suitcases on the curbing.
“How far did that hombre say it was to the school?” asked Ned Turner,
after a minute of silence.
“Three quarters of a mile.”
“How far have we walked already?”
“Mile and a half.”
“Consequently?”
“Said hombre was a li—was unvoracious.”
“Un-_ver_-acious is the word, old son.”
“What do we care? We don’t own it,” replied Laurie, cheerfully. “Want to
go on?”
Ned shook his head slowly. “What time have you got?” he asked.
“What time do you want?” was the flippant response.
With a sigh, Ned pulled back his left sleeve and looked at his watch.
“It’s only about a quarter to twelve. We don’t have to get there until
six if we don’t want to.”
“I know, but I couldn’t sit on this wall all that time! Besides, what
about lunch?”
“I’m not very hungry,” was the sad reply.
“That’s the trouble with having your breakfast late.”
“That’s the trouble with eating two plates of griddle-cakes, you mean,”
retorted Laurie. “Anyway, I’m hungry if you’re not. Let’s go.”
But he made no move, and they continued to dangle their shoes from the
wall and gaze lazily across the shady street. The scissors-grinder’s
chime died in the distance. Farther down the street the whirring of a
lawn-mower competed with the locust.
“Upon a wall they sat them down,” murmured Ned, turning a challenging
look on his companion.
“Lost in the wilds of Orstead Town,” added Laurie.
Ned nodded mild approval and once more silence held.
Save that one was dressed in gray and the other in blue, the two boys
were strikingly alike. Each was slim of body and round of face, with
red-brown hair and a short, slightly impertinent nose. Ned’s eyes were a
trifle bluer than Laurie’s and he had the advantage—if advantage it
was—of some five pounds of weight. But neither of these facts was
apparent at first glance. Faces and hands were well browned and the pair
looked extremely healthy. They were dressed neatly, with perhaps more
attention to detail than is usual in lads of their age, their attire
terminating at one end in well-polished brown shoes and at the other in
immaculate black derbies. Their age was fifteen years, three months, and
eleven days. Which, of course, leads you to the correct conclusion that
they were twins.
“Maybe,” hazarded Laurie, presently, “we’ve lost our way.”
“Don’t just see how we could,” Ned objected. “The old chap at the
station said we were to keep right along up Walnut Street. This is still
Walnut Street, isn’t it?”
“I suppose so.” Laurie’s glance strayed right and left. “Must be; I
don’t see any walnuts.”
“Guess the only ‘nuts’ are right here. Come on, let ’s hit the trail
again.” Ned slid to his feet and took up his burden. “Why the dickens we
didn’t take that carriage the fellow wanted to sell us is more than I
see.”
“’Cause we needed the exercise. Also, ’cause we’re down to a dollar and
fourteen cents between us—unless you ’re holding out.”
“Well, I’m not!” replied Ned, indignantly. “I paid for the breakfasts in
New York—”
“And I paid for dinner on the diner last night—”
“Who said you didn’t?” They went on leisurely, and presently Ned
continued: “Say, suppose we don’t like this ranch after we get
there—then what, old son?”
Laurie considered thoughtfully. Then, “Two things we can do,” he
pronounced. “No, three. We can put up with it, change it to suit us, or
leave it.”
“Leave it! Yes, we can! On a dollar and fourteen cents?”
“We’ll have nearly twenty more when we cash Dad’s check and pay the term
bill. Twenty dollars would take us back to New York and buy a lot of
griddle-cakes, anyway.”
Laurie’s voice was partly drowned by a small delivery automobile that
dashed into sight at a corner ahead and sped by with a clamor worthy of
a four-ton truck. The brothers looked after it interestedly. “That’s the
first sign of life we’ve seen,” said Ned. “Say, I do wish this street
would stop twisting this way. First thing we know, we’ll be back at the
station!”
“Bet you I’d hop the first freight then. I’ve got a hunch that we’re not
going to care for Hillman’s School.”
“Speak for yourself. I am. I like this town, too. It’s pretty.”
“Oh, it’s pretty enough,” grumbled Laurie, “but it went to sleep about a
century ago and hasn’t waked up since. Here’s somebody coming; let’s ask
where the school is.”
“It’s just a girl.”
“What of it? She probably knows.”
The girl appeared to be of about their own age and wore a white middy
dress with black trimming and a scarlet tie knotted below a V of
sun-browned throat. She wore no hat and her dark hair was gathered into
a single braid. As she drew near she gave the boys a quick glance of
appraisal from a pair of gravely friendly brown eyes. It was Ned who
shifted his suitcase to his left hand and raised his derby. It was
always Ned who spoke first; after that, they alternated scrupulously.
“Would you please tell us where Hillman’s School is?” he asked.
The girl stopped and her somewhat serious face lighted with a smile.
“It’s right there,” she replied, and nodded.
The boys turned to the blankness of a high privet hedge behind an iron
fence. The girl laughed softly. “Behind the hedge, I mean,” she
explained. “The gate is a little way around the corner there, on Summit
Street.”
“Oh,” said Laurie. That laugh was contagious, and he grinned in
response. “A man at the station told us it was only three quarters of a
mile, but we’ve been walking for hours!”
“I guess it’s nearer a mile than three quarters,” answered the girl,
slowly. She appeared to be giving the matter very serious consideration
and two little thoughtful creases appeared above her nose, a small,
straight nose that was bridged by a sprinkling of freckles. Then the
smile came again. “Maybe it did seem longer, though,” she acknowledged,
“for it’s uphill all the way; and then, you had your bags. You’re new
boys, aren’t you?”
Ned acknowledged it, adding, “Think we’ll like it?”
The girl seemed genuinely surprised. “Why, of course! Every one likes
it. What a perfectly funny idea!”
“Well,” said Laurie, defensively, “we’ve never tried boarding-school
before, you see. Dad didn’t know anything about Hillman’s, either. He
chose it on account of the way the advertisement read in a magazine.
Something about ‘a moderate discipline rigidly enforced.’”
The girl laughed again. (She had a jolly sort of laugh, they decided.)
“You’re—you’re twins, aren’t you?” she asked.
“He is,” replied Ned, gravely.
“Why—why, aren’t you both?” Her brown eyes grew very round and the
little lines creased her nose again.
“It’s this way,” explained Laurie. “Ned was born first, and so, as there
was only one of him, he wasn’t a twin. Then I came, and that made two of
us, and I was a twin. You see, don’t you? It’s really quite plain.”
The girl shook her head slowly in puzzlement. “I—I’m afraid I don’t,”
she answered apologetically. “You _must_ be twins—both of you, I
mean—because you both look just like both—I mean, each other!” Then
she caught the sparkle of mischief in Ned’s blue eyes and laughed. Then
they all laughed. After which they seemed suddenly to be very good
friends, such good friends that Laurie abandoned custom and spoke out of
turn.
“I suppose you know a lot of the fellows,” he said.
The girl shook her head. “N—no, not any, really. Of course, I see most
of them when they come to Mother’s, but she doesn’t like me to—to
_know_ them.”
“Of course not,” approved Ned. “She’s dead right, too. They’re a pretty
poor lot, I guess.”
“Oh, no, they’re not, really! Only, you see—” She stopped, and then
went on a trifle breathlessly: “I guess she wouldn’t be awfully pleased
if she saw me now! I—I hope you’ll like the school.”
She nodded and went on.
“Thanks,” called Laurie. “If we don’t like it, we’ll change it.
Good-by.”
“Nice kid,” observed Ned, tolerantly, as they turned the corner of the
hedge. “Wonder who she is. She said most of the fellows went to her
mother’s. Maybe her mother gives dancing lessons or something, eh?”
“If she does, she won’t see me,” responded his brother, firmly. “No
dancing for mine.”
“Maybe it’s compulsory.”
“Maybe it’s esthetic,” retorted Laurie, derisively. “It makes no never
mind. I’m agin it. This must be the place. Yes, there’s a sign.”
It was a very modest sign a-swing from a rustic post beside a broad
entrance giving on to a well-kept drive. “Hillman’s School—Entrance
Only,” it read. Laurie stopped in pretended alarm and laid a detaining
clutch on Ned’s shoulder.
“‘Entrance Only’! Sounds as if we couldn’t ever get out again, Ned! Do
you dare?”
Ned looked doubtfully through at the curving drive and the red-brick
building that showed beyond the border of trees and shrubbery. Then he
threw back his shoulders and set foot bravely within.
“Come, comrade, let us know the worst!”
Laurie, with a gesture of resignation, followed.
“What you durst I will likewise durst!”
CHAPTER II—THE GIRL IN THE WHITE MIDDY
When Doctor John Hyde Hillman started a modest school for boys, on the
bank of the Hudson River, at Orstead, the town barely crept to the one
brick building that contained dormitory and recitation-rooms. But that
was nearly twenty years ago, and to-day the place is no longer isolated,
but stands well inside the residence section of the village. There are
four buildings, occupying most of an unusually large block. School Hall,
four stories in height, is a red-brick, slate-roofed edifice, whose
unloveliness has been mercifully hidden by ivy. It faces Summit Street
and contains the class-rooms, the offices, and, at one end, the
principal’s quarters. Flanking it are the two dormitories, East Hall and
West Hall. These, while of brick too, are modern and far more
attractive. Each contains sleeping-rooms to accommodate forty students,
two masters’ studies, a recreation-hall, dining-room, kitchen, and
service-rooms. Behind East Hall is the gymnasium, a picturesque
structure of random-set stone, gray stucco, and much glass. Here,
besides the gymnasium proper, is an auditorium of good size, a modest
swimming-tank, locker-room and baths, and a commodious office presided
over by Mr. Wells, the physical director. From the gymnasium steps one
looks across an attractive, well-kept quadrangle of shaded turf,
vegetable and flower gardens, and tennis-courts.
Doctor Hillman occupies an apartment at the west end of the School Hall,
gained from the building by way of the school offices, and from without
by way of a wide porch, vine screened in summer and glassed in winter,
an outdoor living-room where, on seasonable Friday afternoons, the
doctor’s maiden sister, Miss Tabitha, who keeps house for him, serves
weak tea and layer-cake to all comers. Miss Tabitha, I regret to say, is
known among the boys as “Tabby,” with, however, no more intention of
disrespect than in alluding to the doctor as “Johnny.” Miss Tabitha’s
thin body holds a warm heart, and her somewhat stern countenance belies
her kindly ways.
On this fifteenth day of September, shortly after twelve o’clock, Miss
Tabitha was seated on the vine-shaded porch in an erect and
uncompromising attitude, her knitting-needles clicking busily. Near by,
but a few moments before released from the office, the doctor was
stretched in a long wicker chair, a morning paper before him. At the
other end of the porch, a gate-legged table was spread for the mid-day
meal, and a middle-aged colored woman—who, when it pleased her,
answered to the name of Aunt Persis—shuffled in and out of sight at
intervals. It was Miss Tabitha who, hearing the sound of steps on the
walk, peered over her glasses and broke the silence.
“Two more of the boys are coming, John,” she announced.
The doctor grunted.
“I think they are new boys. Yes, I am sure they are. And bless my soul,
John, they’re alike as two peas!”
“Alike?” The doctor rustled the paper to indicate interest. “Well, why
shouldn’t they be? Probably they’re brothers. Let me see, weren’t those
two boys from California brothers? Of course. Turner’s the name.”
“Well, I never saw two boys so much alike in all my born days,” Miss
Tabitha marveled. “Do you suppose they can be twins, John?”
“It’s quite within the realm of probability,” was the reply. “I believe
that twins do occur occasionally, even in the—er—best-regulated
families.”
“Well, they certainly _are_ twins!” Miss Tabitha laid down her work,
brushed the front of her immaculate dress, and prepared to rise. “I
suppose I had better go and meet them,” she added.
“I don’t see the necessity for it, my dear,” the doctor protested.
“Cummins may, I think, be relied on to deal even with—er—twins.”
“Of course; but—still—California’s such a long way—and they may feel
strange—or lonesome—”
The doctor laughed gently. “Then by all means go, my dear. If you like,
have them out here for a few minutes. If the resemblance between them is
as striking as you seem to think, they must be worth seeing.”
When Miss Tabitha had tripped into the house, the doctor dropped his
paper, stretched luxuriously, and, with a sigh of protest, sat up. He
was several years younger than his sister—which is to say, in the
neighborhood of forty-seven. He was a smallish man, compactly built,
with a pleasant countenance on which a carefully-trimmed Vandyke beard
made up to an extent for the lack of hair above. He wore shell-rimmed
glasses and was very near-sighted, a fact emphasized by his manner of
thrusting his head forward to eke out the deficiencies of his lenses.
This trick was apparent a minute later when, following in the tripping
footsteps of Miss Tabitha, the two boys emerged on the porch. They were
amazingly alike, the doctor decided: same height, same breadth at hip
and shoulder, same coloring, same leisurely, yet confident, ease of
movement, same expression of lively curiosity twinkling through an
almost depressingly respectful solemnity.
“These are the Turner boys,” announced Miss Tabitha. “This is Edward and
this is—” She halted to look doubtfully from one to the other. “Or—or
perhaps _this_ is Edward and—Dear me!”
“I’m Edward, ma’am,” said the boy in blue.
“Well, I don’t see how you can ever be _certain_ of it!” sighed Miss
Tabitha, doubtfully. “This is Doctor Hillman.”
They shook hands, and in a moment the boys found themselves seated side
by side and replying to the doctor’s questions.
“You are entering with certificates from your high school principal, I
believe, young gentlemen. What year were you?”
“Second, sir,” answered Ned.
“And your home is in—”
“Santa Lucia, sir,” replied Laurie.
“California,” added Ned.
“Well, you’re quite a ways from home. Did you make the trip alone?”
“Yes, sir. Dad was coming with us as far as Chicago, but something
happened so he couldn’t. We didn’t have any trouble, though.”
“Really? Well, I believe you have the distinction of residing farther
away than any of your fellows here. I don’t recall any one who lives as
far away as California; do you, sister?”
Miss Tabitha looked doubtful and hesitated an instant before she
replied, “George Watson comes from Wyoming, I think, John.”
“So he does,” assented the doctor, gravely; “but measured in a straight
line, my dear, California is slightly farther than Wyoming.”
“Is it?” asked Miss Tabitha, untroubled. “I never could remember where
those western States are.”
“You remember many more important things, however. My sister, boys,
fancied that she detected a certain resemblance between you, and even
surmised that you might be—er—twins. Doubtless she’s mistaken.”
“No, sir,” answered Ned, more than a trace of surprise in his voice. “I
mean, we are twins, sir.”
“Why, now that’s interesting! Looking closer—” the doctor leaned
forward and craned his head—“I believe I detect a certain slight
similarity myself!”
There was a perceptible twinkle behind the glasses and Laurie dared a
laugh, in which the doctor and Ned joined, while Miss Tabitha murmured:
“Well! I should think you _might_!”
“I hope you are both going to like the school,” continued the doctor.
“Of course, you’ll find our ways a little different, but we’ll try to
make you feel at home. You are the first representatives of your State
who have attended our school, and I trust that both in conduct and
industry you will bring honor to it. Mr. Cornish, your hall master, will
advise you in all matters pertaining to your studies, Other questions
may be taken to Mr. Cummins, the school secretary, whom you have
doubtless already met. But I want you always to feel at perfect liberty
to come to me at any time on any matter at all. And,” added the doctor,
with a twinkle, “if we fail you, there is still my sister, who, I assure
you, possesses more wisdom than all of us.”
Miss Tabitha acknowledged the compliment with a little wry smile, and
Ned and Laurie arose.
“Yes, sir,” said the former.
“Thank you, sir,” said Laurie.
“Luncheon is served at one in West Hall,” continued the doctor. “That’s
the dormitory behind you there. Beginning with supper to-night, you will
take your meals in your own hall, but only a few of the students have
arrived as yet, and so only one dining-room is open. I’m very glad to
have met you, young gentlemen. Mr. Cummins will direct you to your room.
Good morning.”
Five minutes later, the Turner twins set their suitcases down on the
floor of Number 16 East Hall and looked about them. Number 16 was not
palatial as to size, but it was big enough to hold comfortably the two
single beds, the study-table, the two narrow chiffoniers, and the four
chairs that made up its furnishing. There was a generous-sized closet at
each side of the door, and two windows set close together between the
beds. Under the windows was a wide seat, lacking only pillows to make it
inviting. From the casements the boys looked over or through the topmost
branches of the maples that lined Washington Street and followed Summit
Street as it continued its ascent of the hill and presently leveled out
between a thick wood on one side and an open field on the other.
“That must be the athletic field,” said Laurie. “See the stand there?
And the goal-posts? How do you like it?”
“The field? Looks all right from here.”
“I mean the whole outfit, you simp; the school and Doctor Hillman and
Miss Frosty-Face and everything.”
“Cut out calling names, Laurie. Miss Hillman’s all right. So’s the
doctor. So’s the school. I like it. Wonder when our trunks will get
here.”
“Half an hour ago you had a hunch you weren’t going to like it,” jeered
Laurie. “Changed your mind, haven’t you?”
“Yes, and I’m going to change more than my mind.” Whereupon Ned opened
his bag and selected a clean shirt. “What time is it?”
“What do you wear a watch for if you never look at it?” grumbled his
brother. “It’s ten to one, Lazy. I’m going to find a place to wash up. I
choose this side of the room, Ned.”
Ned studied the room a moment. “No, you don’t,” he challenged. “I’ll
take this side. I’m the oldest.” “There isn’t any difference, you chump.
One side’s as good as the other.”
“Then you won’t mind taking the other,” answered Ned, sweetly. “Run
along and find the lavatory. I think it’s at the head of the stairs.
Wonder why they put us up two flights.”
“Guess they knew you were naturally lazy and needed the exercise.”
Laurie dodged a pair of traveling slippers in a red-leather case and
disappeared into the corridor.
Some ten minutes later they descended the stairway together and set out
for West Hall. Laurie drew attention to the gymnasium building, but Ned,
who had recovered his appetite, only deigned it a glance. Two boys,
luggage laden, evidently just arrived, came down the steps of School
Hall as the twins passed, and stared curiously.
“Guess they’ve never seen twins before in this part of the world,”
grumbled Laurie. “Those chaps nearly popped their eyes out!”
West Hall proved an exact duplicate of their own dormitory, and the
dining-room occupied all the right end of it. There were about fifteen
boys there, in age varying from fourteen to eighteen, and there was a
perceptible pause in the business of eating when the newcomers entered.
A waitress conducted them to seats at a table already occupied by three
other lads, and asked if they’d have milk or iced tea. Ned, as usual,
answered for both.
“Iced tea, please, and lots of lemon.”
A very stout boy, sitting across the table, sniggered, and then,
encountering Ned’s inquiring regard, said, “Guess you think you’re in
the Waldorf!”
“What’s the Waldorf?” asked Ned. “Don’t you get lemon with iced tea
here?”
“Sure! but you don’t get much. Say, are you fellows—twins, or what?”
“Twins?” repeated Laurie. “Where do you get that stuff? This fellow’s
name is Anderson and mine’s Stenman. What’s yours?”
“Crow. Honest, is that a fact?” Crow looked appealingly at the other
occupants of the table. These, however, two rather embarrassed-looking
youngsters of fourteen or thereabouts, fixed their eyes on their plates,
and Crow turned his regard incredulously back to the twins. “Gee, you
fellows look enough alike to be—be—” He swallowed the word. “Aren’t
you even related?”
Ned gazed speculatively at Laurie and Laurie gazed speculatively at Ned.
“We might be,” hazarded the latter.
Laurie nodded. “If we went back far enough, we might find a common
ancestor.”
The arrival of luncheon caused a diversion, although Crow, who was a
round-faced, credulous-looking youth of perhaps seventeen, continued to
regard them surreptitiously and in puzzlement. At last, making the
passing of the salt an excuse, for further conversation, he asked,
“Where do you fellows come from?”
“California,” said Ned.
“Santa Lucia,” said Laurie.
“Well, but,” sputtered Crow, “isn’t California in Santa—I mean, isn’t
Santa—Say, you guys are joking, I’ll bet!”
“Methinks,” observed Ned, helping himself gravely to mustard, “his words
sound coarse and vulgar.”
Laurie abstractedly added a fourth teaspoon of sugar to his iced tea.
“Like Turk or Kurd or even Bulgar,” he murmured.
Crow stared, grunted, and pushed his chair back. “You fellows think
you’re smart, don’t you?” he sputtered. “Bet you you are twins—both of
you!”
Ned and Laurie looked after him in mild and patient surprise until his
broad back had disappeared from view. Then a choking sound came from one
of the younger lads, and Ned asked gently, “Now what’s your trouble,
son?”
The boy grew very red of face and gave way to giggles. “I knew all the
time you were twins,” he gasped.
“Did you really?” exclaimed Laurie. “Well, listen. Just as a favor to
us, don’t say anything about it, eh? You see, we’re sort of—sort of—”
“Sort of sensitive,” aided Ned. “We’d rather it wasn’t generally known.
You understand, don’t you?”
The boy looked as if he was very far indeed from understanding, but he
nodded, choked again, and muttered something that seemed to indicate
that the secret was safe with him. Laurie thanked him gratefully.
After luncheon they went sight-seeing about the school, snooped through
the dim corridors and empty class-rooms of School Hall, viewed the
gymnasium and experimented with numerous apparatus, and finally, after
browsing through a flower and vegetable garden behind the recitation
building and watching two boys make a pretense of playing tennis,
returned to Number 16 in the hope of finding their trunks. But the
baggage had not arrived, and presently, since the room was none too
cool, they descended again and followed the curving drive to the right
and past a sign that said “Exit Only” and wandered west on Summit
Street.
For the middle of September in the latitude of southern New York the
weather was decidedly warm, and neither grass nor trees hinted that
autumn had arrived. In the well-kept gardens across the way, scarlet
sage and cosmos, asters and dahlias made riots of color.
“Hot!” grunted Ned, running a finger around the inside of his collar.
“Beastly,” agreed Laurie, removing his cap and fanning his heated face.
“Wonder where the river is. If we had our bathing-suits, maybe we could
go for a swim.”
“Yes, and if we had a cake of ice we could sit on it!” responded Ned,
sarcastically. “This place is hotter than Santa Lucia.”
At the next corner they turned again to the right. Morton Street, like
so many of the streets in Orstead, refused to go straight, and after a
few minutes, to their mild bewilderment, they found themselves on Walnut
Street once more, a block below the school.
“I’m not going back yet,” said Laurie, firmly. “Let’s find a place where
we can get something cool to drink.”
As Walnut Street was unpromising, they crossed it and meandered along
Garden Street. The houses here appeared to be less prosperous, and the
front yards were less likely to hold lawn and flowers than dilapidated
baby-carriages. At the first crossing they peered right and left, and
were rewarded by the sight of a swinging sign at a little distance.
What the sign said was as yet a mystery, for the trees intervened, but
Laurie declared that he believed in signs and they made their way toward
it. It finally proved to be a very cheerful little sign hung above a
little white door in a little pale-blue two-story house, the lower floor
of which was plainly devoted to commercial purposes.
L. S. DEANE
BOOKS, TOYS, AND
CONFECTIONERY
CIRCULATING LIBRARY
LAUNDRY AGENCY
TONICS
That is what the sign said in red letters on a white background. The
windows, many paned, allowed uncertain glimpses of various articles:
tops of red and blue and green, boxes of pencils, pads of paper, jars of
candy, many bottles of ink, a catcher’s glove, a dozen tennis-balls,
some paper kites—
Laurie dragged Ned inside, through a screen door that, on opening,
caused a bell to tinkle somewhere in the farther recesses of the little
building. It was dark inside, after the glare of the street, and
refreshingly cool. Laurie, leading the way, collided with a bench,
caromed off the end of a counter, and became aware of a figure, dimly
seen, beyond the width of a show-case.
“Have you anything cold to drink?” asked Ned, leaning across the
show-case.
“Ginger-ale or tonic or something?” Laurie elaborated.
“Yes, indeed,” replied the apparition, in a strangely familiar voice.
“If you will step over to the other side, please—”
Ned and Laurie leaned farther across the show-case.
It was the girl in the white middy dress.
CHAPTER III—CAKES AND ALE
“Hello!” exclaimed the twins, in one voice.
“Hello,” replied the girl, and they suspected that she was smiling,
although their eyes were still too unused to the dimness of the little
store for them to be certain. She was still only a vague figure in
white, with a deeper blur where her face should have been. Treading on
each other’s heels, Ned and Laurie followed her to the other side. The
twilight brightened and objects became more distinct. They were in front
of a sort of trough-like box in which, half afloat in a pool of
ice-water, were bottles of tonic and soda and ginger-ale. Behind it was
a counter on which reposed a modest array of pastry.
“What do you want?” asked the girl in the middy.
“Ginger-ale,” answered Ned. “Say, do you live here?”
“No, this is the shop,” was the reply. “I live upstairs.”
“Oh, well, you know what I mean,” muttered Ned. “Is this your store?”
“It’s my mother’s. I help in it afternoons. My mother is Mrs. Deane. The
boys call her the Widow. I’m Polly Deane.”
“Pleased to know you,” said Laurie. “Our name’s Turner. I’m Laurie and
he’s Ned. Let me open that for you.”
“Oh, no, thanks. I’ve opened hundreds of them. Oh dear! You said
ginger-ale, didn’t you! And I’ve opened a root-beer. It’s so dark in
here in the afternoon.”
“That’s all right,” Ned assured her. “We like root-beer. We’d just as
soon have it as ginger-ale. Wouldn’t we, Laurie?”
“You bet! We’re crazy about it.”
“Are you sure? It’s no trouble to—Well, _this_ is ginger-ale, anyway.
I’m awfully sorry!”
“What do we care?” asked Ned. “We don’t own it.”
“Don’t own it?” repeated Polly, in a puzzled tone.
“That’s just an expression of his,” explained Laurie. “He’s awfully
slangy. I try to break him of it, but it’s no use. It’s fierce.”
“Of course _you_ don’t use slang?” asked Polly, demurely. “Who wants the
root-beer?”
“You take it,” said Laurie, hurriedly.
“No, you,” said Ned. “You’re fonder of it than I am, Laurie. I don’t
mind, really!”
Laurie managed a surreptitious kick on his brother’s shin. “Tell you
what,” he exclaimed, “we’ll mix ’em!”
Ned agreed, though not enthusiastically, and with the aid of a third
glass the deed was done. The boys tasted experimentally, each asking a
question over the rim of his glass. Then looks of relief came over both
faces and they sighed ecstatically.
“Corking!” they breathed in unison.
Polly laughed, “I never knew any one to do that before,” she said. “I’m
glad you like it. I’ll tell the other boys about it.”
“No, you mustn’t,” protested Ned. “It’s our invention. We’ll call
it—call it—”
“Call it an Accident,” suggested Laurie.
“We’ll call it a Polly,” continued the other. “It really is bully.
It’s—it’s different; isn’t it, Laurie? Have another?”
“Who were those on?” was the suspicious reply.
“You. The next is on me. Only maybe another wouldn’t taste so good, eh?”
“Don’t you fool yourself! I’ll risk that.”
However, the third and fourth bottles, properly combined though they
were, lacked novelty, and it was some time before the last glass was
emptied. Meanwhile, of course, they talked. The boys acknowledged that,
so far, they liked what they had seen of the school. Mention of the
doctor and Miss Hillman brought forth warm praise from Polly. “Every one
likes the doctor ever so much,” she declared. “And Miss Tabitha is—”
“Miss what?” interrupted Laurie.
“Miss Tabitha. That’s her name.” Polly laughed softly. “They call her
Tabby,—the boys, I mean,—but they like her. She’s a dear, even if she
does look sort of—of cranky. She isn’t, though, a bit. She makes
believe she’s awfully stern, but she’s just as soft as—as—”
“As Laurie’s head?” offered Ned, helpfully. “Say, you sell ’most
everything here, don’t you? Are those cream-puffs?”
Ned slipped a hand into his pocket and Laurie coughed furiously. Ned’s
hand came forth empty. He turned away from temptation. “They look mighty
good,” he said. “If we’d seen those before we’d had all that
ginger-ale—”
Polly spoke detachedly. “You can have credit if you like,” she said,
placing the empty bottles aside. “The doctor lets the boys run bills
here up to a dollar. They can’t go over a dollar, though.”
“Personally,” observed Laurie, jingling some coins in a trousers pocket,
“I prefer to pay cash. Still, there are times—”
“Yes, a fellow gets short now and then,” said Ned, turning for another
look at the pastry counter. “Maybe, just for—for convenience, it would
be a good plan to have an account here, Laurie. Sometimes a fellow
forgets to put any money in his pocket, you know. Does your mother make
these?”
“Yes, the cream-cakes, and some of the others. The rest Miss Comfort
makes.”
“That’s another funny name,” said Laurie. “Who is Miss Comfort?”
“She’s—she’s just Miss Comfort, I guess,” replied Polly. “She lives on
the next corner, in the house with the white shutters. She’s quite old,
almost seventy, I suppose, and she makes the nicest cake in Orstead.
Everybody goes to her for cakes. That’s the way she lives, I guess.”
“Maybe we’d ought to help her,” suggested Ned, mentally choosing the
largest and fattest cakes on the tray. “I guess we’ll take a couple. How
much are they?”
“Six cents apiece,” said Polly. “Do you want them in a bag?”
“No, thanks.” Ned handed one of the cakes to Laurie; “we’ll eat them
now.” Then, between mouthfuls; “Maybe you’d better charge this to us. If
we’re going to open an account, we might as well do it now, don’t you
think?”
Polly retired behind a counter and produced a long and narrow book, from
which dangled a lead pencil at the end of a string. She put the tip of
the pencil between her lips and looked across. “You’d better tell me
your full names, I think.”
“Edward Anderson Turner and—”
“I meant just your first names.”
“Oh! Edward and Laurence. You can charge us each with two bottles and
one cake.”
“I like that!” scoffed Laurie. “Thought you were treating to cakes?”
“Huh! Don’t you want to help Miss Comfort? I should think you’d like
to—to do a charitable act once in a while.”
“Don’t see what difference it makes to her,” grumbled Laurie, “whether
you pay for both or I pay for one. She gets her money just the same.”
Ned brushed a crumb from his jacket. “You don’t get the idea,” he
replied gently. “Of course, I might pay for both, but you wouldn’t feel
right about it, Laurie.”
“Wouldn’t I? Where do you get that stuff? You try it and see.” Laurie
spoke grimly, but not hopefully. Across the counter, Polly was giggling
over the account-book.
“You’re the funniest boys I ever did see,” she explained, in answer to
their inquiring looks. “You—you say such funny things!”
Before she could elucidate, footsteps sounded in the room behind the
store and a tiny white-haired woman appeared. In spite of her hair, she
couldn’t have been very old, for her face was plump and unwrinkled and
her cheeks quite rosy. Seeing the customers, she bowed prettily and said
“Good afternoon” in a very sweet voice.
“Good afternoon,” returned the twins.
“Mama, these are the Turner boys,” said Polly. “One of them is Ned and
the other is Laurie, but I don’t know which, because they look just
exactly alike. They—they’re twins!”
“I want to know!” said Mrs. Deane. “Isn’t that nice? I’m very pleased to
meet you, young gentlemen. I hope Polly has served you with what you
wanted. My stock is kind of low just now. You see, we don’t have many
customers in summer, and it’s very hard to get things, nowadays, even if
you do pay three times what they’re worth. Polly, those ice-cream cones
never did come, did they?”
“Gee, do you have ice-cream?” asked Ned; eagerly.
“Never you mind!” said Laurie, grabbing his arm. “You come on out of
here before you die on my hands. I’m sorry to tell you, ma’am, that he
doesn’t know when to stop eating. I have to go around everywhere with
him and look after him. If I didn’t, he’d be dead in no time.”
“I want to know!” exclaimed the Widow Deane interestedly. “Why, it’s
very fortunate for him he has you, isn’t it?”
“Yes’m,” answered Laurie, but he spoke doubtfully, for the little
white-haired lady seemed to hide a laugh behind her words. Ned was
grinning. Laurie propelled him to the door. Then, without relinquishing
his grasp, he doffed his cap.
“Good afternoon,” he said, “We’ll come again,”
“We know not how,” added Ned, “we know not when.”
“Bless my soul!” murmured the Widow, as the screen door swung behind
them.
Back at school, the twins found a different scene from what they had
left. The grounds were populous with boys, and open windows in the two
dormitory buildings showed many others. The entrances were piled with
trunks and more were arriving. A rattling taxi turned in at the gate,
with much blowing of a frenzied but bronchial horn, and added five merry
youths to the population. Ned and Laurie made their way to East Hall,
conscious, as they approached, of many eyes focussed on them from
wide-flung windows. Remarks reached them, too.
“See who’s with us!” came from a second-floor casement above the
entrance; “the two Dromios!”
“Tweedledum and Tweedledee!”
“The Siamese Twins, I’ll bet a cooky!”
“Hi, East Hall! Heads out!”
The two were glad when they reached the shelter of the doorway. “Some
one’s going to get his head punched before long,” growled Ned, as they
started upstairs.
“What do we care? We don’t own ’em. Let them have their fun, Neddie.”
“I’ll let some of them have a wallop,” was the answer. “You’d think we
were the first pair of twins they’d ever seen!”
“Well, maybe we are. How do you know? Suppose those trunks have come?”
They had, and for the next hour the twins were busy unpacking and
getting settled. From beyond their door came sounds of much turmoil; the
noise of arriving baggage, the banging of doors, shouts, whistling,
singing; but they were otherwise undisturbed until, just when Laurie had
slammed down the lid of his empty trunk, there came a knock at their
portal, followed, before either one could open his mouth in response, by
the appearance in the doorway of a bulky apparition in a gorgeous
crimson bath-robe.
“Hello, fellows!” greeted the apparition. “Salutations and everything!”
[Illustration: “Hello, fellows! Salutations and everything!”]
CHAPTER IV—KEWPIE STARTS SOMETHING
The twins stared silently and suspiciously for an instant. Then Ned made
cautious response.
“Hello,” he said, with what must have seemed to the visitor a lamentable
lack of cordiality.
The latter pushed the door shut behind him by the kick of one stockinged
foot, and grinned jovially. “My name’s Proudtree,” he announced.
“You can’t blame us,” replied Laurie, coldly.
Proudtree laughed amiably. “It is a rotten name, isn’t it? I live across
the corridor, you know. Thought I’d drop in and get acquainted, seeing
you’re new fellows; extend the hand of friendship and all that. You
understand. By Jove, Pringle was right, too!”
“That’s fine,” said Ned, with more than a trace of sarcasm. “What
about?”
“Why,” answered Proudtree, easing his generous bulk into a chair, “he
said you fellows were twins.”
“Not only were,” said Laurie, gently, “but are. Don’t mind, do you?”
“Oh, come off your horse,” begged the visitor. “Don’t be so cocky. Who’s
said anything? I just wanted to have a look. Never saw any twins
before—grown-up twins, I mean. You understand.”
“Thought you said you came to extend the hand of friendship,” retorted
Ned, sarcastically. “Well, have a good look, partner. There’s no
charge!”
Proudtree grinned and accepted the invitation. Ned fumed silently under
the inspection, but Laurie’s sense of humor came to his aid. Proudtree
appeared to be getting a lot of entertainment from his silent comparison
of his hosts, and presently, when Ned’s exasperation had just about
reached the explosive point, he chuckled.
“I’ve got it,” he said.
“Got what?” Laurie asked.
“The—the clue! I know how to tell you apart! His eyes are different
from yours; more blue. Yours are sort of gray. But, geewhillikins, it
must be a heap of fun! Being twins, I mean. And fooling people. You
understand.”
“Well, if you’re quite through,” snapped Ned, “maybe you’ll call it a
day. We’ve got things to do.”
“Meaning you’d like me to beat it?” asked the visitor, good-temperedly.
“Just that!”
“Oh, come, Ned,” Laurie protested, soothingly, “he’s all right. I dare
say we are sort of freakish and—”
“Sure,” agreed Proudtree, eagerly, “that’s what I meant. But say, I
didn’t mean to hurt any one’s feelings. Geewhillikins, if I got waxy
every time the fellows josh me about being fat—” Words failed him and
he sighed deeply.
Laurie laughed. “We might start a side-show, the three of us, and make a
bit of money. ‘Only ten cents! One dime! This way to the Siamese Twins
and the Fat Boy! Walk up! Walk up!’”
Proudtree smiled wanly. “I only weigh a hundred and seventy-eight and
three quarters, too,” he said dolorously. “If I was a couple of inches
taller it wouldn’t be so bad.”
“I don’t think it’s bad as it is,” said Laurie, kindly. “You don’t look
really _fat_; you just look sort of—of—”
“Amplitudinous,” supplied Ned, with evident satisfaction.
Proudtree viewed him doubtfully. Then he smiled. “Well, I’ve got to get
rid of nearly fifteen pounds in the next two weeks,” he said, with a
shake of his head, “and that’s going to take some doing.”
“What for?” Laurie asked. “Why destroy your symmetry?”
“Football. I’m trying for center. I nearly made it last year, but
Wiggins beat me out. He’s gone now, though, and Mulford as good as said
last spring that I could make it this fall if I could get down to a
hundred and sixty-five.”
“Who’s Mulford?” inquired Ned. “A fortune-teller?”
Proudtree ignored the sarcasm. “Mulford’s our coach. He’s all right,
too. The trouble with me is, I’m awfully fond of sweet things, and
I—I’ve been eating a lot of ’em lately. But I guess I can drop fourteen
pounds if I cut out pies and candy and things. Don’t you think so?”
Proudtree appealed to Laurie almost pathetically.
“Don’t let any one tell you anything different,” replied Laurie,
reassuringly. Ned, evidently recovered from his peevishness, asked:
“What sort of football do they play here?”
“Corking!” answered Proudtree.
“I mean, Rugby or the other?”
“Rugby!” exclaimed Proudtree, scornfully. “I guess not! We play regular
football. Nobody plays Rugby around these parts. Are you fellows going
out?”
“Not just yet,” replied Ned.
“He means are we going to try for the football team,” explained Laurie.
“Yes, we are, Proudtree; at least, one of us is.”
“You?”
“We haven’t decided yet. You see, we’ve never played your kind of
football. Back home, at high school, we played American Rugby, and it’s
quite different. But we decided that one of us had better go in for
football and the other for baseball, if only to do our duty by the
school.”
Proudtree looked puzzled. “How are you going to decide?” he asked.
“Oh, we’ll toss up or draw lots or something, I suppose. Maybe, though,
Ned had better play football, because I know more baseball than he does.
Still, I’m not particular.”
“That’s the limit!” chuckled the visitor. “Say, what are your names? I
didn’t see any cards on the door.”
“Turner. His is Laurie and mine’s Ned,” answered the latter. “Do we put
our names on the door?”
“It’s the best way,” answered Proudtree. “Well, I’ve got to be moving. I
started to take a shower and got side-tracked. You chaps come on over
and see me and I’ll get some of the other fellows in. You want to meet
the right sort, you know. What’s your class?”
“Lower middle, I reckon,” said Ned. “That’s what we expect.”
“Too bad you can’t make upper. That’s mine. We’ve got a corking bunch of
fellows this year. Well, see you later. Try for Mr. Barrett’s table when
you go down. That’s the best. Maybe they’ll put you there if you bluff
it out. You understand. So long, fellows.”
Proudtree withdrew with considerable dignity in view of his bulk, waving
a benedictory hand ere the door closed behind him. Ned shook his head.
“Sort of a fresh hombre,” he said.
“Oh, he only meant to be friendly, I reckon,” said Laurie. “You
understand.”
Ned laughed. “I’ll bet they’ve got a wonderful football team here if he
plays on it! By the way, maybe we’d better settle which of us is to be
the football star. I suppose they begin to practise pretty soon. I’ll be
the goat, if you like; though you had better luck with that book you
bought in Chicago. I couldn’t make head or tail of it. I never saw so
many rules for playing one game in my life!”
“It _was_ sort of difficult,” agreed Laurie. “I dare say, though, that
you pick up the rules quick enough when you start to play. If you don’t
really mind, I think you’d better go in for football, and I’ll do the
baseball stunt. I’ve played it more than you have, you know, even if I’m
no wonder.”
“All right!” Ned sighed. “We’ll get a bottle of arnica to-morrow.
Nothing like being prepared. How about going to see Mr. What’s-his-name
before supper about courses?”
“Might as well, and have it over with. I’d like to know whether we’re
going to make the lower middle.”
“Don’t see what else we can make. They can’t stick us in the junior
class. Where’s my coat? For the love of lemons, Laurie, can’t you find
anything else to sit on? Gosh, look at the wrinkles!”
“Those aren’t wrinkles; they’re just creases. Come on!”
Half an hour later they closed the door of Mr. Cornish’s study on the
floor below, in a chastened mood. Each carried a little buff card
whereon the instructor had tabulated an amazing number and variety of
study periods. Back in Number 16, Ned cast himself into a chair, thrust
his legs forth, and gazed disconsolately at the card.
“I don’t see where a fellow finds time for anything but work here,” he
complained. “Sixteen, eighteen, twenty-one hours a week! What do you
know about that?”
“Well, don’t be so proud of it. I’ve got the same, haven’t I? I wonder
how many hours he thinks there are in a day?”
“I tell you what I think,” said Ned, after a moment’s thought. “I think
he got it into his head that we’re very ambitious and want to graduate
next spring!”
“Maybe that’s it,” agreed Laurie, gravely. “Shall we go back and tell
him he’s wrong?”
“N-no, let’s not. He seemed a well-meaning old codger, and I wouldn’t
want to hurt his feelings—if he has any. Let’s go down and see what
they’ve got for supper.”
Ned’s blandishments failed with the waitress, and they were established
at a table presided over by a tall and very thin gentleman, whose name,
as they learned presently, was Mr. Brock. There were four tables in the
room, each accommodating ten boys and a member of the faculty.
Diagonally across the dining-hall, the twins descried the ample Mr.
Proudtree. Another table was in charge of a pleasant-faced woman who
proved to be the school matron, Mrs. Wyman. Mr. Cornish, the hall
master, and Mr. Barrett sat at the heads of the remaining boards.
The room was very attractive, with a fine big stone fireplace at the
farther end, and broad windows on two sides. The food proved plain, but
it was served in generous quantities; and notwithstanding that the twins
were a bit self-conscious, they managed a very satisfactory meal.
Their fellow-students seemed to be a very decent lot. Their ages
appeared to average about sixteen, and they had the clean, healthy look
of boys who spent much of their time outdoors. At the table at which the
twins sat, four of the boys were evidently seniors, and one was as
evidently a junior. The latter looked hardly more than thirteen, though
he was in reality a year older than that, and had the features and
expression of a cherub. The twins concluded that he was a new boy and
felt a little sorry for him. He looked much too young and innocent to
face the world alone.
No one made any special effort to engage either Ned or Laurie in
conversation, perhaps because the returning youths had so much to talk
about among themselves. Mr. Brock ate his supper in silence, save when
one of the older boys addressed him, and had a far-away and abstracted
air. Laurie saw him sweeten his tea three times, and then frown in
annoyance when he finally tasted it.
The boy who had guessed their awful secret at luncheon sat at the next
table, and more than once Ned caught him looking across with a
half-bewildered, half-frightened expression that somehow managed to
convey the intelligence that, in spite of temptation, he had kept the
faith. Ned finally rewarded him with a significant wink, and the youth
retired in confusion behind the milk-pitcher.
When the meal was over the twins went outside and, following the example
set by others, made themselves comfortable on the grass beyond the walk.
Near by, two older boys were conversing earnestly, and Ned and Laurie,
having exhausted their own subjects of conversation, found themselves
listening.
“We’ve got to do it,” the larger of the two was saying. “Dave’s going to
call a meeting of the school for Friday evening, and Mr. Wells is going
to talk to them. I’ll talk too. Maybe you’d better, Frank. You can tell
them a funny story and get them feeling generous.”
“Nothing doing, Joe. Leave me out of it. I never could talk from a
platform. Anyway, it’s the fellows’ duty to provide money. If they
don’t, they won’t have a team. They understand that—or they will when
you tell them. There’s another thing, though, Joe, that we’ve got to
have besides money, and that’s material. We’ve _got_ to get more fellows
out.”
“I know. I’ll tell them that, too. I’m going to put a notice up in
School Hall in the morning. Mr. Cummins says there are eight new fellows
entering the middle classes this year. Maybe some of them are
football-players.”
“Bound to be. Did you see the twins?”
“No, but Billy Emerson was telling me about them. What do they look
like?”
“Not bad. Rather light-weight, though, and sort of slow. They’re from
Arizona or somewhere out that way, I think. You can’t tell them apart,
Joe.”
“Think they’re football stuff?”
“Search me. Might be. They’re light, though. Here comes Kewpie. Gosh,
he’s fatter than ever! Hi, Kewpie! Come over here!”
It was Proudtree who answered the hail, descended the steps, and
approached. “Hello, Joe! Hello, Frank! Well, here we are again, eh?
Great to be back, isn’t it? Have a good summer, Joe?”
“Fine! You?”
“Corking! I was on Dad’s yacht all through August. Saw the races and
everything. Bully eats, too. You understand.”
“Yes,” Joe Stevenson replied, “and I understand why you’re about twenty
pounds overweight, Kewpie! You ought to be kicked around the yard, you
fat loafer. Thought you wanted to play center this fall.”
“I’m going to! Listen, Joe, I’m only fourteen pounds over and I’ll drop
that in no time. Honest, I will. You see! Besides, it isn’t all fat,
either. A lot of it’s good, hard muscle.”
“Yes, it is! I can see you getting muscle lying around on your father’s
yacht! I’m off you, Kewpie. You haven’t acted square. You knew mighty
well that you were supposed to keep yourself fit this summer, and now
look at you! You’re a big fat lump!”
“Aw, say, Joe! Listen, will you?” Proudtree’s gaze wandered in search of
inspiration and fell on the twins. His face lighted. “Hello, you chaps!”
he said. Then he leaned over and spoke to Joe. “Say, have you met the
Turner brothers, Joe? One of ’em’s a swell player. Played out in North
Dakota or somewhere.”
“Which one?” asked Joe, surreptitiously eying the twins. “Why, the—I
forget: they look so much alike, you know. I think it’s the one this
way. Or maybe it’s the other. Anyway, I’ll fetch them over, eh?”
“All right, Kewpie.”
Kewpie started away, paused, and spoke again. “They’re—they’re awfully
modest chaps, Joe. You’d think from hearing them talk that they didn’t
know much about the game, but don’t you be fooled. That’s just their
way. You understand.”
“Oh, sure, Kewpie!” And when the latter had gone on his errand Joe
smiled and, lowering his voice, said to Frank Brattle: “Kewpie’s trying
to put something over. I wonder what.”
“Proudtree tells me one of you fellows plays football,” said Joe, a
minute later, when introductions had been performed and Ned and Laurie
had seated themselves. “We need good players this fall. Of course, I
hope you’ll both come out.”
“Ned’s the football chap,” said Laurie. “Baseball’s my line.”
“I don’t know—” began Ned, but Laurie pinched him warningly, and he
gulped and, to Kewpie’s evident relief, made a fresh start. “I’m not
much of a player,” he said modestly, “but I’m willing to have a try at
it.”
Kewpie darted an “I-told-you-so” glance at Joe and Frank.
“Where do you come from, Turner?” Joe asked politely.
“Santa Lucia, California. I was in the high school there two years.
Everything’s quite—quite different here.” Ned spoke hurriedly, as
though anxious to switch the conversation from football, and Laurie
smiled in wicked enjoyment. “The climate’s different, you know,” Ned
went on desperately, “and the country and—and everything.”
“I suppose so,” said Frank Brattle. “What’s your position, Turner?”
“Position?”
“Yes; I mean, where did you play? Behind the line, I suppose, or maybe
end.”
“Oh, yes, yes, behind the line. You see, I—I—”
“There aren’t many fellows can play half-back the way Ned can,” said
Laurie, gravely. “He won’t tell you so, but if you ever meet any one who
saw him play against Weedon School last year—”
“Shut up!” begged Ned, almost tearfully.
Kewpie was grinning delightedly. Joe Stevenson viewed Ned with absolute
affection. “Half-back, eh? Well, we can use another good half, Turner,
and I hope you’re the fellow. I don’t know whether Kewpie told you that
I’m captain this year, but I am, and I’m going to try mighty hard to
captain a winning team. You look a bit light, but I dare say you’re
fast, and, for my part, I like them that way. Besides, we’ve got Mason
and Boessel if we want the heavy sort. Practice starts to-morrow at
four, by the way. How about your brother? Glad to have him come out,
too. Even if he hasn’t played, he might learn the trick. And there’s
next year to think of, you know.”
“I think not, thanks,” answered Laurie. “One football star is enough in
the family.”
“Well, if you change your mind, come on and have a try. Glad to have met
you. See you to-morrow—er—Turner. I want to find Dave, Frank. Coming
along?”
The two older boys made off toward West Hall, and as soon as they were
out of hearing Ned turned indignantly on Laurie.
“You’re a nice one!” he hissed. “Look at the hole you’ve got me in!
‘Half-back’! ‘Played against Weedon School’! What did you want to talk
that way for? Why, those fellows think I know football!”
“Cheer up,” answered his brother, grinning. “All you’ve got to do is
bluff it through. Besides, Proudtree asked us not to let on we didn’t
know a football from a doughnut, and I had to say something! You acted
as if you were tongue-tied!”
“Yes; that’s so—you started it!” Ned turned belligerently around. “Said
it would be a favor to you—” He stopped, discovering that Proudtree had
silently disappeared and that he was wasting his protests on the empty
air. “Huh!” he resumed after a moment of surprise, “it’s a good thing he
did beat it! Look here, Laurie, I’m in a beast of a mess. Yow know I
can’t face that captain chap to-morrow. Suppose he handed me a football
and told me to kick it!”
“He won’t. I’ve watched football practice back home. You’ll stand around
in a circle—”
“How the dickens can I stand in a circle?” objected Ned.
“And pass a football for a while. Then you’ll try starting, and maybe
fall on the ball a few times, until you’re nice and lame, and after that
you’ll run around the track half a dozen times—”
“Oh, shut up! You make me sick! I won’t do it. I’m through. I’d look
fine, wouldn’t I? I guess not, partner!”
“You’ve got to, Ned,” replied Laurie calmly. “You can’t back down now.
The honor of the Turners is at stake! Come on up and I’ll read that
rules book to you. Maybe some of it’ll seep in!”
After a moment of indecision Ned arose and followed silently.
CHAPTER V—IN THE PERFORMANCE OF DUTY
School began in earnest the next morning. Ned and Laurie were awakened
from a deep slumber by the imperative clanging of a gong. There were
hurried trips to the bath-room, and finally a descent to the
recreation-room and morning prayers. Breakfast followed in the pleasant,
sunlit dining-hall, and at half-past eight the twins went to their first
class. There wasn’t much real work performed that morning, however.
Books were bought and, being again in possession of funds, Ned purchased
lavishly of stationery and supplies. He had a veritable passion for
patent binders, scratch-pads, blank-books, and pencils, and Laurie
viewed the result of a half-hour’s mad career with unconcealed concern.
“You’re all wrong, Ned,” he said earnestly. “We aren’t opening a
stationery emporium. Besides, we can’t begin to compete with the office.
They buy at wholesale, and—”
“Never mind the comedy. You’ll be helping yourself to these things soon
enough, and then you won’t be so funny.”
“That’s the only way they’ll ever get used up! Why, you’ve got enough
truck there to last three years!”
There was one interesting annual observance that morning that the twins
witnessed inadvertently. At a little after eight the fellows began to
assemble in front of School Hall. Ned and Laurie, joining the throng,
supposed that it was merely awaiting the half-hour, until presently
there appeared at the gate a solitary youth of some fourteen years, who
came up the circling drive about as joyfully as a French Royalist
approaching the guillotine. Deep silence prevailed until the embarrassed
and unhappy youth had conquered half of the interminable distance. Then
a loud “_Hep!_” was heard, and the throng broke into a measured refrain:
“_Hep!—Hep!—Hep!—Hep!_”
This was in time to the boy’s dogged steps. A look of consternation came
into his face and he faltered. Then, however, he set his jaw, looked
straight ahead, and came on determinedly.
“_Hep!—Hep!_”
Up the steps he passed, a disk of color in each cheek, looking neither
to right nor left, and passed from sight. As he did so, the chorus
changed to a good-humored laugh of approval. Ned made inquiry of a youth
beside him.
“Day boy,” was the explanation. “There are ten of them, you know:
fellows who live in town. We always give them a welcome. That chap had
spunk, but you wait and see some of them!”
Two more followed together, and, each upheld in that moment of trial by
the presence of the other, passed through the ordeal with flying colors.
But the twins noted that the laughing applause was lacking. After that,
the remaining seven arrived almost on each other’s heels and the air was
filled with “_Heps!_” Some looked only surprised, others angry; but most
of then grinned in a sickly, embarrassed way and went by with hanging
heads.
“Sort of tough,” was Ned’s verdict, and Laurie agreed as they followed
the last victim inside.
“It looks as if day students weren’t popular,” he added.
Later, though, he found that he was wrong. The boys who lived in the
village were accepted without reservation, but, naturally enough, seldom
attained to a full degree of intimacy with those who lived in the
dormitories.
By afternoon the twins had become well shaken down into the new life,
had made several superficial acquaintances, and had begun to feel at
home. Of Kewpie Proudtree they had caught but fleeting glimpses, for
that youth displayed a tendency to keep at a distance. As the hour of
four o’clock approached, Ned became more and more worried, and his
normally sunny countenance took on an expression of deep gloom. Laurie
kept close at his side, fearing that courage would fail and Ned would
bring disgrace to the tribe of Turner. But Laurie ought to have known
better, for Ned was never what his fellows would have called a
“quitter.” Ned meant to see it through. His mind had retained very
little of the football lore that his brother had poured into it the
night before, but he had, at least, a somewhat clearer idea of the
general principles of the game. He knew, for instance, that a team
comprised eleven players instead of the twelve he had supposed, and that
certain restrictions governed the methods by which you might wrest the
ball from an opponent. Thus, you could not legally snatch it out of his
arms, nor trip him up in the hope that he would drop it. Ned thought the
restrictions rather silly, but accepted them.
The athletic field, known in school parlance as the play-field, was even
larger than it had looked from their windows. It held two gridirons and
three baseball diamonds, as well as a quarter-mile track and ten
tennis-courts. There was also a picturesque and well-appointed
field-house and a fairly large grand stand. To Ned’s relief, most of the
ninety students were in attendance, though only about forty of the
number were in playing togs. Ned’s idea was that among so many he might
escape close observation.
He had, of course, handled a football more or less, and he was possessed
of his full share of common sense. Besides, he had perhaps rather more
than his share of assurance. To his own surprise, if not to Laurie’s, he
got through the hour and a half of practice very creditably. Seasoned
candidates and novices were on the same plane to-day. There was, first
of all, a talk by the coach. Mr. Mulford was a short, broad,
good-humored man of about thirty, with a round and florid countenance,
which possibly accounted for the nickname of “Pinky” that the school had
affectionately awarded him. His real name was Stephen, and he had played
guard, and played it well, for several years with Trinity College. This
was his fourth season as football coach at Hillman’s and his third as
baseball coach. So far he had been fairly successful in both sports.
His talk was brief and earnest, although he smiled through it all. He
wanted lots of material, but he didn’t want any fellow to report for
practice who didn’t mean to do his level best and stick it out. Those
who were afraid of either hard work or hard knocks had better save their
time and his. Those who did report would get a fair trial and no favor.
He meant to see the best team this fall that Hillman’s School had ever
turned out, one that would start with a rush and finish with a bang,
like a rocket!
“And,” he went on, “I want this team made up the way a rocket is. A
rocket is filled with stars, fellows, but you don’t realize it until the
final burst. So we’re going to put the soft pedal on individual
brilliancy this year. It almost had us licked last fall, as you’ll
remember. This year we’re going to try hard for a well-rounded team of
hard workers, fellows who will interlock and gear together. It’s the
machine that wins, the machine of eleven parts that work all together in
oil. We’re going to find the eleven parts first, and after that we’re
going to do the oiling. All right now! Ten men to a squad. Get balls and
pass in circles. Learn to hold the ball when you catch it. Glue right to
it. And when you pass, put it where you want it to go. Don’t think that
the work is silly and unnecessary, because it isn’t. A fellow who can’t
hold a ball when it comes to him is of no use on this team. So keep your
minds right on the job and your eyes right on the ball. All right,
Captain Stevenson.”
At least, Ned could, to quote Laurie, “stand in a circle” and pass a
football, and he did, and did it better than several others in his
squad. In the same way, he could go after a trickling pigskin and catch
it up without falling over himself, though it is possible that his
“form” was less graceful than that of one or two of his fellows. When,
later, they were formed in a line and started off by the snapping of the
ball in the hands of a world-wearied youth in a faded blue sweater
bearing a white H on its breast, Ned didn’t show up so well, for he was
almost invariably one of the last to plunge forward. The blue-sweatered
youth called his attention to the fact finally in a few well-chosen
words.
“You guy in the brown bloomers!” he bellowed. (Of course they weren’t
bloomers, but a pair of somewhat expansive golf breeches that Ned,
lacking proper attire, had donned, not without misgivings, on Laurie’s
advice.) “Are you asleep? Put some life into it! Watch this ball, and
when you see it roll, jump! You don’t look like a cripple, but you
surely act like one!”
Toward the end a half-dozen last-year fellows took to punting, but, to
Ned’s relief, no one suggested that he take a hand at it, and at
half-past five or thereabouts his trials came to an end. He went out of
his way, dodging behind a group on the side-line, to escape Joe
Stevenson, but ran plump into Frank Brattle instead.
“Hello, Turner,” Frank greeted. “How did it go?”
“All right,” replied Ned, with elaborate carelessness. “Fine.”
“Rather a nuisance having to go through the kindergarten stunts, isn’t
it?” continued the other, sympathetically. “Mulford’s a great hand at
what he calls the fundamentals, though. I dare say he’s right, too. It’s
funny how easy it is to get out of the hang of things during the summer.
I’m as stiff as a broom!”
“So am I,” answered Ned, earnestly and truthfully. Frank smiled, nodded,
and wandered on, and Ned, sighting Laurie hunched up in the grand stand,
joined him. “It’s a bully game, football,” he sighed, as he lowered
himself cautiously to a seat and listened to hear his muscles creak.
“Full of beneficial effects and all that.” Laurie grinned in silence.
Ned felt experimentally of his back, frowned, rocked himself backward
and forward twice, and looked relieved. “I guess there’s nothing
actually broken,” he murmured, “I dare say it’ll be all right soon.”
“They say the first two months are the hardest,” responded Laurie,
comfortingly. “After that there’s no sensation.”
Ned nodded. “I believe it,” he said feelingly. He fixed his gaze on the
farther goal-post and after a minute of silence remarked:
“I’d like to catch the man who invented football!”
He turned a challenging look on his brother. Laurie blinked and for
several seconds his lips moved noiselessly and there was a haunted look
in his gray eyes. Then, triumphantly, he completed the couplet: “It may
suit some, but it doesn’t suit all!”
“Rotten!” said Ned.
“I’d like to see you do any better,” answered Laurie, aggrievedly.
“There isn’t any proper rhyme for ‘football,’ anyway.”
“Nor any reason for it, either. Of all—”
“Hi, you fellow!” interrupted a scandalized voice. “What are you doing
up there? Have you done your two laps?”
The speaker was a lanky, red-haired man who bristled with authority and
outrage.
“Two laps?” stammered Ned. “No, sir.”
“Get at it, then. And beat it in when you have. Want to catch cold, do
you? Sitting around without a blanket or anything like that!” The
trainer shot a final disgusted look at the offender and went on.
“Gee,” murmured Ned, “I thought I was done! Two laps, he said! I’ll
never be able to, Laurie!”
“Oh, yes, you will,” was the cheerful response. “And while you’re doing
them you can think up a better rhyme for ‘football’ than I did!”
Ned looked back reproachfully as he limped to the ground and, having
gained the running-track, set off at a stiff-kneed jog. Laurie’s
expression relented as he watched.
“Sort of tough on the kid,” he muttered sympathetically. Then his face
hardened again and he shook his head. “I’ve got to be stern with him,
though!”
CHAPTER VI—NED IS FIRM
Kewpie Proudtree obeyed the shouted invitation to enter Number 16 and
appeared with a countenance as innocent as that of an infant. “Hello,
fellows,” he said cordially, dropping into a chair with indications of
exhaustion. “How do you like it as far as you’ve gone?”
Ned shifted in his seat at the study-table, choking back a groan, and
fixed Kewpie with a baleful look. “Listen, Proudtree,” he said sternly.
“I’ve got a bone to pick with you!”
“With me?” Kewpie stared in amazement. “What have I done?”
“You’ve got me into a fix, that’s what you’ve done! Didn’t you ask
me—us—last night not to let on to Stevenson that we—I—couldn’t play
football? Didn’t you say it would be a favor to you? Didn’t you say it
would be all right and—and everything?”
“Sure! What of it?”
“Why, you crazy galoot, you must have told him that I knew all about the
game! And you knew mighty well I didn’t! Stevenson thinks I’m a wonder,
and I don’t know a touch-down from a—a forward kick!”
“Pass, not kick,” corrected Kewpie, patiently. “Look here, Turner— Say,
are you Ned or Laurie? Blessed if I can tell!”
“Ned,” replied that youth, with much dignity.
“Guess I’ll have to call you Ned, then. Can’t call you both Turner. You
understand. It was like this, Ned. You see, I want to stand in with Joe
Stevenson. It—it’s for the good of the school. If they don’t play me at
center this fall, who are they going to play? Well, Joe thought I—well,
he seemed to think I hadn’t acted just right about keeping my weight
down. He—he was sort of peeved with me. So I wanted to smooth him down
a bit. You understand. That’s why I told him what I did.”
“Well, what _did_ you tell him?”
“Why, I sort of—well, it wasn’t what I _said_ exactly; it was what he
thought I meant!”
“Proudtree, you’re telling a whopper,” said Ned, sternly. “And you told
one to Stevenson, too, or I miss my guess.”
“I only said that you were a swell football-player.”
“For the love of lemons! What do you call that but a whopper?”
Kewpie looked both ashamed and distressed. He swallowed hard and glanced
furtively at Laurie as though hoping for aid. But Laurie looked as
unsympathetic as Ned. Kewpie sighed dolefully. “I—I suppose it was,” he
acknowledged. “I didn’t think about that. I’m sorry, Ned, honest! I
didn’t mean to tell what wasn’t so. I just wanted to get Joe’s mind off
his troubles. You understand.”
“Well, you got me in a mess,” grumbled Ned. “I got by all right to-day,
I suppose, but what’s going to happen to-morrow?”
Kewpie evidently didn’t know, for he stared morosely at the floor for a
long minute. Finally, “I’ll go to Joe and fess up if—if you say so,” he
gulped.
“I think you ought to,” responded Ned.
“Where’s the sense in that?” demanded Laurie. “What good would it do?
Proudtree did fib, but he didn’t mean to. I mean he didn’t do it for
harm. If he goes and tells Stevenson that he fibbed, Stevenson will have
it in for him harder than ever; and he will have it in for you, too,
Ned. Maybe he will think it was a scheme that you and Proudtree hatched
together. That’s a punk idea, I say. Best thing to do is prove that
Proudtree didn’t fib.”
“How?” asked Ned.
“Why, Proudtree—”
“There’s an awful lot of that ‘Proudtree’ stuff,” complained the
visitor. “Would you mind calling me Kewpie?”
“All right. Well, Kewpie told Captain Stevenson that you are a swell
player. Go ahead and be one.”
“Huh, sounds easy the way you say it,” scoffed Ned; “but how can I, when
I don’t know anything about the silly game? I wish to goodness you’d
taken up football instead of me!”
“You got through to-day all right, didn’t you?” asked Laurie. “Well,
keep it up. Keep your eyes open and learn. You can do it. You’re no
fool, even if you haven’t my intellect. Besides, you’re the best little
fakir that ever came over the range.”
“You can’t fake kicking a football,” said Ned, scathingly.
“Look here!” exclaimed Kewpie, his round face illumined by a great idea.
“Tell you what, Ned! I’ll show you how to kick!”
The silence that greeted the offer might have offended a more sensitive
youth, but Kewpie went on with enthusiasm. “Of course, I’m no wonder at
it. I’m a little too short in the leg and, right now, I—I’m a bit
heavy; but I used to kick and I know how it ought to be done. Say we
have a half-hour or so at it every morning for a while?”
“Wouldn’t Stevenson know what was up?” asked Ned, dubiously.
“He needn’t know. We’ll go over to the lot behind the grammar school.
Even if he saw us, he’d think we were having some fun.”
“He must have a strange idea of fun,” sighed Ned. “Still, if you want to
take the trouble—”
“Glad to! Besides, I owe you something for—for getting you in wrong.
And I can put you wise to a lot of little things about handling a ball.
We could do some passing, for instance. Wonder who’s got a ball we could
borrow. I’ll find one somewhere. You understand. Now, what hour have you
got free in the morning?”
A comparison of schedules showed that on two mornings a week the boys
could meet at ten, and on two other mornings at ten-thirty. The
remaining days were not accommodating, however.
“Well, even four times a week will show results,” said Kewpie,
cheerfully. “This is Thursday. We’ll have the first lesson Saturday at
ten.”
“I hope they don’t ask me to do any kicking before then,” said Ned.
“Not likely. You’ll get about the same stuff to-morrow as you had
to-day. You’ll get by, take my word for it. That’s settled, then.”
Kewpie referred to an ornate gold wrist-watch. “It’s after eight. You’re
going over to Johnny’s, aren’t you!”
“Johnny’s?” repeated Laurie. “Oh, Doctor Hillman’s! I suppose so. What’s
it like?”
“Oh, it isn’t bad. The eats are pretty fair. Anyway, he sort of likes
the fellows to go, and he’s a good sort. You’ll be introduced to the
faculty and their wives, if they have any, and meet a lot of fellows
whose names you’ll forget the next minute. Take my advice and sort of
work in toward the dining-room. Last year, the harlequin ice-cream gave
out before I could get to the table.” Kewpie sighed. “Tabby has bully
cake, too, and I’m off of cake. Isn’t that rotten luck?”
“Awful!” laughed Ned. “You going over now?”
“Yes. Come on and I’ll introduce you to some of the fellows you ought to
know. I’ll wash my dirty paws and meet you in two minutes.”
The principal’s reception proved rather enjoyable. The “eats” were
excellent and, under Kewpie’s guidance, the twins reached the long table
in the dining-room well in advance of the crowd. As Laurie remarked
afterward, it was worth the amount of trouble involved just to watch
Kewpie’s mouth water as he gazed soulfully at the chocolate layer-cake.
To his credit be it narrated that he manfully resisted it. Besides
consuming much delectable food, the twins were impressively introduced
by their guide to a number of their fellow-students, the introduction
being prefaced in each case by a sort of biographical note, as: “There’s
Dan Whipple. The tall fellow with the trick collar, talking to Mrs.
Wells. Rows stroke on the crew. Senior class president. Honor man last
year. President of Attic, too. Good chap to know. Come on.” In such
manner they met at least a half-dozen school notables, most of whom were
extremely affable to the new boys. Sometimes, to be sure, the twins had
a suspicion that Kewpie was pretending a closer intimacy with a notable
than in fact existed, but he always “got away with it.”
The only fly in the ointment of the evening’s enjoyment occurred when
Kewpie mischievously introduced them to Mrs. Pennington, the wife of the
Greek and Latin instructor, and sneaked away. Mrs. Pennington was tall
and extremely thin, and viewed the world through a pair of
tortoise-shell spectacles. She had a high voice and what Ned termed a
“very Lake Superior” manner, and, since she confined her conversation to
the benefits to be derived from an earnest study of the Latin poets,
philosophers, and historians, the twins were not happy. Fortunately,
very little was demanded from them conversationally, Mrs. Pennington
being quite competent to do all the talking. But, unfortunately, she
gave them no chance to get away. Ned descried Kewpie grinning
heartlessly from the doorway and rewarded him with a terrific and
threatening scowl. Kewpie, however, waved blandly and faded into the
night. Release came to them at last and they scurried away, neglecting,
in their hurried departure, to say good night either to the doctor or
Miss Tabitha, a breach of etiquette which probably passed unnoted by the
hosts. Back in East Hall, the twins hammered loudly at Number 15, but
Kewpie was either absent or discreet. At any rate, there was no
response, and revenge had to be postponed.
To Laurie’s surprise, a notice on the bulletin-board in the corridor of
School Hall the following morning announced that autumn baseball
practice would begin that afternoon. He had supposed that his hour to
offer himself on the altar of school patriotism would not arrive until
the next spring; and later, when he strode down Walnut Street with Ned,
in search of football togs for the latter, he broached the subject
diplomatically.
“Funny idea to have baseball practice this time of year, I think,” he
remarked carelessly. “Not much good in it. A fellow would forget
anything he learned by next April.”
“Didn’t know they did,” replied Ned, uninterestedly. “Who told you
that?”
“Oh, there was a notice on the board in School Hall. Don’t believe many
fellows go out in the fall.”
“Thought baseball was a spring and summer game. Still, I dare say you
can play it just as well now. Seems to me I’ve heard of having spring
football practice, haven’t you?”
“I dare say. Crazy scheme, though, playing games out of season.”
“Ye-es.” Ned went on thoughtfully a moment Then he shot a suspicious
glance at his brother. “You going out?” he demanded.
“N-no, I don’t think so,” answered Laurie, lightly. “There’s that
building we had the bet on the other day. We never did find out—”
“Never you mind about that building,” interrupted Ned, severely. “I’m on
to you, partner. You’re trying to renege on baseball. Well, it doesn’t
go! You’re a baseball hero and you’ve got to get busy!”
“Aw, Ned, have a heart! There’s plenty of time—”
“No, sir, by jiminy! You got me slaving for the dear old school, now you
do your bit!”
“Yes, but it isn’t fair to start the baseball season in September. You
know it isn’t.”
“Cut out the alibis! You can get some baseball togs right now. Good
thing you spoke of it. What’ll you need?”
“All I need is kindness,” wailed Laurie. “Ned, I don’t want to be a
hero! I don’t want to save the dear old school from defeat in the ninth
inning! I—I—”
“You’re going to do as you agreed to,” answered Ned, grimly. “Remember
that the honor of the Turners is at stake!”
Laurie sighed deeply. Then, “You speak of honor! Say no more. I yield,”
he declaimed dramatically.
“You bet you do,” answered Ned, unhesitatingly. “You for the baseball
field!”
CHAPTER VII—HIGH SCHOOL ACCEPTS DEFEAT
A week passed, and the twins began to feel like old residents. They had
ceased being “the Turner twins” to acquaintances, although others still
referred to them so, and their novelty had so far worn off that they
could enter a classroom or walk side by side across the yard without
being conscious of the rapt, almost incredulous stares of the beholders.
To merely casual acquaintances they were known as Ned and Laurie; to a
few friends they had become Nid and Nod. Kewpie was responsible for
that. He had corrupted “Ned” into “Nid,” after which it was impossible
for Laurie to be anything but “Nod.” Laurie had demurred for a time,
demanding to be informed who Nod had been. Kewpie couldn’t tell him,
being of the hazy belief that Nid and Nod were brothers in some fairy
story he had once read, but he earnestly assured Laurie that both had
been most upright and wholly estimable persons. Anyhow, Laurie’s
objections wouldn’t have accomplished much, for others had been prompt
to adopt the nicknames and all the protests in the world wouldn’t have
caused them to drop them. These others weren’t many in number, however:
Kewpie and Thurman Kendrick and Lee Murdock and George Watson about made
up the list of them at this time.
Kendrick was Kewpie’s room-mate, a smallish, black-haired, very earnest
youth of sixteen, which age was also Kewpie’s. Thurman was familiarly
known as “Hop,” although the twins never learned why. He was a candidate
for quarter-back on the eleven and took his task very seriously. Lee
Murdock was one of the baseball crowd, and Laurie had scraped
acquaintance with him on the diamond during a practice game. The word
“scraped” is used advisedly, for Laurie, in sliding to second base, had
spiked much of the skin from Lee’s ankle. Of such incidents are
friendships formed! Lee was two years older than Laurie, a big, rather
raw-boned fellow with a mop of ash-colored hair and very bright blue
eyes.
George Watson was sixteen, an upper middler, and, as Laurie frequently
assured him, no fit associate for a respectable fellow. To the latter
assertion George cheerfully agreed, adding that he always avoided such.
He came from Wyoming and had brought with him a breeziness of manner
that his acquaintances, rightly or wrongly, described as “wild and
woolly.” Of the four, Kewpie and George were more often found in company
with the twins.
There had been four lessons in kicking on an open lot behind the grammar
school, two short blocks away, and while Ned had not yet mastered the
gentle art of hurtling a football through the air, Kewpie was
enthusiastic about his pupil’s progress. “Why, geewhillikins, Nid,” he
broke forth after the fourth session, “you’re a born kicker! Honest you
are! You’ve got a corking swing and a lot of drive. You—you’ve got real
_form_, that’s what you’ve got. You understand. And you certainly do
learn! Of course, you haven’t got it all from me, because you’ve been
punting in practice two or three times, but I take some of the credit.”
“You’ve got a right to,” responded Ned. “You’ve taught me a lot more
than I’ve learned on the field. Gee, if it hadn’t been for you I’d been
afraid even to try a punt over there! You ought to see the puzzled way
that Pope looks at me sometimes. He can’t seem to make me out, because,
I suppose, Joe Stevenson told him I was a crackajack. Yesterday he said,
‘You get good distance, Turner, and your direction isn’t bad, but you
never punt twice the same way!’”
“Well, you don’t,” laughed Kewpie. “But you’ll get over that just as
soon as I can get it into your thick head that the right way’s the best
and there’s only one right!”
“I know,” said Ned, humbly. “I mean to do the way you say, but I sort of
forget.”
“That’s because you try to think of too many things at once. Stop
thinking about your leg and just remember the ball and keep your eyes on
it until it’s in the air. That’s the secret, Nid. I heard Joe telling
Pinky the other day that you’d ought to shape up well for next year.”
“Next year!” exclaimed Ned, dubiously. “Gee! mean to tell me I’m going
through all this work for next year?”
“Well, you might get a place this year, for all you know,” replied
Kewpie, soothingly. “Just keep on coming, Nid. If you could only—well,
if you had just a bit more _speed_ now, got started quicker, you know,
Pinky would have you on the second squad in no time, I believe. You’re
all right after you get started, but—you understand.”
“I do the best I know how,” sighed Ned. “I suppose I am slow on the
get-away, though. Corson is always calling me down about it. Oh, well,
what do I care? I don’t own it.”
“I’d like to see you make good, though,” said Kewpie. “Besides, remember
the honor of the Turners!”
Ned laughed. “Laurie will look after that. He’s doing great things in
baseball, if you believe him, and it wouldn’t be right for us to capture
all the athletic honors.”
“You make me weary!” grunted Kewpie. “Say, don’t you California chaps
ever have any pep?”
“California, old scout, is famous for its pep. We grow it for market out
there. Why, I’ve seen a hundred acres planted to it!”
“You have, eh? Well, it’s a big shame you didn’t bring a sprig of it
East with you, you lazy lummox! Some day I’m going to drop a cockle-burr
down your back and see if you don’t show some action!”
Hillman’s started her season on the following Saturday with Orstead High
School. As neither team had seen much practice, the contest didn’t show
a very high grade of football. The teams played four ten-minute
quarters, consuming a good two hours of elapsed time in doing it, their
members spending many precious moments prone on the turf. The weather
was miserably warm for football and the players were still pretty soft.
Kewpie derived great satisfaction from the subsequent discovery that he
had dropped three quarter pounds and was within a mere seven pounds of
his desired weight. Had he played the game through instead of yielding
the center position to Holmes at the beginning of the last half, he
might have reached his goal that afternoon. Ned and Laurie wounded him
deeply by declaring that there was no apparent improvement in his
appearance.
Ned saw the game from the substitutes’ bench, and Laurie from the stand.
High School turned out a full attendance and, since Hillman’s was
outnumbered two to one, “O. H. S.” colors and cheers predominated.
Laurie sat with Lee Murdock, who, as a baseball enthusiast, professed a
great scorn of football. (There was no practice on the diamond that
afternoon.) Lee amused himself by making ridiculous comments in a voice
audible for many yards around.
“That’s piffle!” he declared on one occasion, when the ground was strewn
with tired, panting players. “The umpire said, ‘Third down,’ but if they
aren’t three quarters down, I’ll treat the crowd! The trouble with those
fellows is that they didn’t get enough sleep last night. Any one can see
that. Why, I can hear that big chap snoring ’way over here!” Again,
“That brother of yours is playing better than any of them,” he asserted.
“Ned? Why, he isn’t in! He’s on the bench down there.”
“Sure! That’s what I mean. You don’t see him grabbing the ball away from
Brattle and losing two or three yards at a time. No, sir; he just sits
right there, half asleep, and makes High School _work_ for the game.
Every time he doesn’t take the ball, Nod, he saves us three or four
yards. He’s a hero, that’s what he is. If Mulford would get all the rest
of them back on the bench, we might win.”
“You’re crazy,” laughed Laurie.
During the intermission, Laurie’s wandering gaze fell on two girls a
dozen seats away. One, whom he had never seen before, displayed a
cherry-and-black pennant and belonged unmistakably to the high school
cohort. She was a rather jolly-looking girl, Laurie decided, with a good
deal of straw-colored hair and a pink-and-white skin. Her companion was
evidently divided as to allegiance, for she had a cherry-and-black
ribbon pinned on the front of her dress and wore a dark-blue silken
arm-band. For a moment Laurie wondered why she looked familiar to him.
Then he recognized her as Polly Deane. The two girls appeared to be
alone, although some boys in the row behind were talking to them.
So far, the twins had not been back to the little shop on Pine Street,
but Laurie resolved now that he would drop around there very soon and
pay his bill before his money was gone. After paying the school bill for
the first half-year, he and Ned had shared slightly more than twenty
dollars, but since then there had been many expenses. They had each had
to purchase playing togs and stationery, and, finally, had donated two
dollars apiece to the football fund at the mass-meeting Friday night of
the week before.
Viewed from a financial standpoint, that meeting hadn’t been a great
success, and it was no secret that, unless more money was forthcoming,
the team would be obliged to cancel at least one of its away-from-home
games. But it had resulted in bringing out a big field of candidates,
and there had been a lot of enthusiasm. The next day, viewing his
reduced exchequer, Laurie had ruefully observed that he guessed a dollar
would have been enough to give, but Ned had called him a “piker” and a
“tight-wad” and other scornful things. Yesterday Ned had borrowed half a
dollar, which was more than a fourth of Laurie’s remaining cash; and the
first of October was still a week distant. Realizing the latter fact,
Laurie changed his mind about settling his account at the Widow Deane’s.
But, he reflected, with another friendly glance in Polly’s direction, it
wouldn’t be right to withhold his trade from the store. And he wasn’t
anywhere near the limit of indebtedness yet!
Two listless periods followed the intermission, the only inspiring
incident coming when, near the end of the third quarter, Pope, Hillman’s
full-back, foiled in his attempt to get a forward pass away, smashed
past the enemy and around his left end for a run that placed the pigskin
six yards short of the last white line. From there the home team managed
to push its way to a touch-down, the third and last score of the day.
The final figures were 10 to 7 in Hillman’s favor, and neither side was
very proud of the outcome.
Ned returned to Number 16 half an hour later in a most critical frame of
mind, and spent ten minutes explaining to Laurie just when and how the
school team had failed. At last Laurie interrupted him to ask, “Have you
told this to Mr. Mulford, Ned?”
“Mr. Mulford? Why—oh, go to the dickens!”
“Seems to me he ought to know,” said Laurie, gravely.
“That’s all right. You can be sarcastic if you like, but I’m talking
horse-sense. You see a lot of things from the bench that you don’t see
from the stand. Besides, you’ve got to know football to understand it.
Now you take—”
“I beg your pardon! Did you say anything about understanding football?”
“Well, I understand a lot more about it than you do,” replied the other,
warmly. “I’ve been playing it a week, haven’t I?”
“Sure, but I’ll bet you don’t know how much a safety counts!”
“I don’t need to. That’s up to the referee. But I know some football,
just the same. And I punted forty-seven yards yesterday, too!”
“In how many punts?” inquired Laurie, innocently.
Ned threw a book at him and the subject was closed.
In his own line, baseball, Laurie was not setting the world on fire. He
was gaining a familiarity with the position of center fielder on the
scrub nine, and batting practice was at least not doing him any harm.
But he certainly had displayed no remarkable ability; and if Ned had
gained a notion to the contrary, it was merely because it pleased Laurie
to fool him with accounts of imaginary incidents in which he, Laurie,
had shone most brilliantly. As Ned knew even less about baseball than he
had known of football, almost any fairy-tale “went” with him, and Laurie
derived much amusement thereby; decidedly more, in fact, than he derived
from playing!
On Monday morning Laurie dragged Ned over to the Widow Deane’s for
ginger-ale, professing a painful thirst. The Widow greeted them
pleasantly, recalling their names, and provided them with the requested
beverage. Laurie’s thirst seemed to have passed, for he had difficulty
in consuming his portion. When, presently, he asked politely about
Polly, it developed that that young lady was quite well enough to attend
high school as usual. Laurie said, “Oh!” and silently promised himself
that the next time he got thirsty it would be in the afternoon. Ned ate
two doughnuts and was hesitating over raspberry tarts when Laurie
dragged him away. “Can’t you think of anything but eating?” demanded the
latter, disgustedly. Ned only blinked.
“Ginger-ale always makes me hungry,” he explained calmly.
Two days later, the twins awoke to cloudy skies, and by mid-forenoon a
lazy drizzle was falling, which later turned to a downright tempest of
wind and rain. At four the baseball candidates scooted to the
field-house for cover, although, peering forth through a drenched
window, Laurie discerned the football-players still at work. Lee Murdock
said he guessed the equinoctial storm had come, and that if it had
there’d be no practice for a couple of days. Laurie tried to look
broken-hearted and failed dismally. Taking advantage of a lull in the
downpour, he and Lee, with many of the others, set forth for school.
They were still far short of the gymnasium, however, when the torrent
began again, and it was a wet, bedraggled, and breathless crowd that
presently pushed through the door.
George Watson, who had been playing tennis before the rain started, was
philosophically regarding a pair of “unshrinkable” flannel trousers
which, so he declared, had already receded an inch at the bottoms. It
was George who suggested that, after changing to dry clothing, they go
over to the Widow’s and have ice-cream at his expense. Not possessing a
rain-coat of his own, Laurie invaded Number 15 and borrowed Kewpie’s. It
was many sizes too large, but it answered. The Widow’s was full when he
and George and Lee got there, and the pastry counter looked as though it
had been visited by an invading army. There was still ice-cream, though,
and the three squeezed into a corner and became absorbedly silent for a
space.
Polly was helping her mother, and Laurie exchanged greetings with her,
but she was far too busy for conversation. Lee treated to a second round
of ice-cream, and afterward Laurie bought a bag of old-fashioned
chocolates. He hoped Polly would wait on him, but it was Polly’s mother
who did so and asked after his brother as she filled the paper sack.
“I do hope you’re looking after him and that he hasn’t eaten those
raspberry tarts yet,” she said pleasantly.
“Yes’m,” said Laurie. “I mean, he hasn’t.” He thought it surprising that
the Widow Deane was able to tell them apart. Even Kewpie and George
frequently made mistakes.
It was still pouring when they went out again, and they hurried up the
street and around the corner into School Park, their progress somewhat
delayed by the fact that Laurie had placed the bag of candy in an
outside pocket of Kewpie’s capacious rain-coat and that all three had
difficulty in finding it. Lee had just popped a big chocolate into his
mouth and George was fumbling into the moist bag when the clouds opened
suddenly and such a deluge fell as made them gasp. In distance they were
but a long block from school; but with the rain descending on them as
though poured from a million buckets, their thought was of immediate
shelter.
“Wow!” yelped Lee. “Let’s get out of this! Here’s a house. Come on!”
There was an opening in a high hedge, and a short brick walk from which
the drops were rebounding knee-high, and, seen dimly through the deluge,
a porch at the end of it. They reached it in what Laurie called three
leaps and a jump, and, under shelter of the roof, drew breath and looked
back into the gray welter. The park was invisible, and even the high
lilac hedge was only a blurred shape. Lee had to shout to make himself
heard above the rain.
“Wonder who lives here,” he said. “I don’t remember this house.”
“Sure you do!” said George. “This is the Coventry house. We’re on the
side porch.”
“Oh!” Lee gazed doubtfully into the rain. “Well, anyway, it’ll do. Gee,
my trousers are soaked to the knees! How long do you suppose this will
keep up?”
“You said for two days,” answered Laurie, cheerfully, trying to dry his
neck with a moist handkerchief.
“I mean this shower, you chump!”
“Call this a shower? What’s a cloud-burst like in this part of the
country, then?”
“We don’t have such things,” answered George, who was peering through a
side-light into the dim interior. “Say, I thought this place was empty,”
he continued. “I can see chairs and a table in there.”
“No; some one rented it this fall,” said Lee. “I noticed the other day
that the front door was open and the grass had been cut. I wouldn’t want
to live in the place, though.”
“Why?” inquired Laurie.
But, before any answer came, the door was suddenly opened within a few
inches of George’s nose and a voice said:
“You fellows had better come inside until it’s over.”
CHAPTER VIII—IN THE MISER’S HOUSE
The invitation came from a boy of about sixteen, a slim, eminently
attractive chap, who smiled persuasively through the aperture. Laurie
knew that he had seen him somewhere, but it was not until they had
followed, somewhat protestingly, into a hallway and from there into a
large and shadowy drawing-room that he recognized him as one of the day
pupils. Lee, it seemed, knew him slightly and called him by name.
“We oughtn’t to come in here,” Lee apologized. “We’re soaking wet,
Starling.”
“It doesn’t matter,” answered their host. “Wait till I find a match and
we’ll have a fire here.”
“Don’t bother, please,” George protested. “We’re going right on in a
minute.”
“Might as well get dry a bit first. The fire’s all laid.” The boy held a
match at the grate and in a moment the wood was snapping merrily. “Pull
up some chairs, fellows. Here, try this. Some rain, isn’t it?”
“Rather,” agreed Lee. “By the way, do you know Turner? And Watson?” The
three boys shook hands. “I didn’t know you lived here,” Lee continued.
“Saw the house had been taken, but didn’t know who had it. Corking big
place, isn’t it?”
Starling laughed. “It’s big all right, but it’s not so corking. Let me
have that rain-coat, Turner. The rooms are so frightfully huge that you
get lost in them! I have the bedroom above this, and the first morning I
woke up in it I thought I was in the Sahara Desert! This was the only
place we could find, though, that was for rent, and we had to take it.
Dad came here on short notice and we didn’t have much time to look
around. Pull up closer to the fire, Watson, and get your feet dry. I’ve
got some slippers upstairs if you want to take your shoes off.”
“No, thanks. I guess the wet didn’t get through. I’ve seen you over at
school, haven’t I?”
“Yes, I’m a day boy; one of the ‘Hep, heps!’”
Lee grinned. “Sort of a mean trick, that, Starling, but they always do
it every year.”
“Wish I’d known about it beforehand. I’d have sneaked over a fence and
through a window. It was fierce! I was the last fellow to get in this
fall. Dad made application in August, and some fellow who had entered in
the spring changed his mind; otherwise I’d have had to go to the high
school.”
“That would have been an awful fate,” said George, gravely.
“Oh, I wouldn’t have minded. I like Hillman’s, though. Do any of you
chaps play tennis?”
“I try to,” answered George.
“Wish you’d give me a game some day. Tennis is about the only thing I
know much about, and I saw some dandy courts over at the field.”
“Glad to,” George assured him. “Any day you like, Starling. I’m not much
of a player, though, so don’t expect a lot.”
“Guess you’re good enough to handle me,” laughed the other. “I like it
better than I can play it. How about to-morrow afternoon?”
“Suits me,” answered George. “Three-thirty?”
“Fine! I’m going to get Dad to build a court in the yard here, if I can.
There’s lots of room, but there’s a tumble-down old grape-arbor right in
the middle.”
“Yes, there’s surely room enough,” agreed Lee. “We used to come over
here last fall and get pears—there’s a dandy seckel tree back there.
I’d say there was room for two or three courts if some of the trees were
cut down.”
“What could he do with three of them?” asked Laurie.
“I suppose we’d have to get the owner’s permission to even take that
rickety old arbor down,” Starling said.
“I thought the owner was dead,” Lee observed.
George chuckled. “If he was dead he wouldn’t be the owner, you simple!
Old Coventry died three or four years ago, but somebody owns the place,
of course. If what they tell of the old chap is true, it must have
broken his heart to know he couldn’t take the place with him! Maybe he
took his money with him, though. Anyway, the story goes that he had
slathers of it, and they could only find a couple of thousands when he
died.”
“What was he, a miser?” asked Starling.
“Yes, one of the sort you read about in the stories. Lived here all
alone for years and years with only a negro servant. They say you could
never see a light in the place at night, and he never went off the front
porch more than a couple of times a year. Then a carriage came for him
and he got in and went down to the boat. He didn’t use the train because
it cost too much. Of course, when he died, folks expected to find that
he had left a mint of money; but all any one could discover was about
two thousand dollars in one of the banks here—that, and this property.
The heirs, whoever they were, pretty near tore the insides out of the
house, they say, looking for coin, but they didn’t get any thing.”
“And at night the old codger’s ghost walks around,” added Lee; “and if
you follow him, he’ll take you to the place the money’s hidden.”
“Honest?” exclaimed Starling, joyfully. “Gosh, that’s great! I always
wanted to live in a house with a ghost.”
“I’m sorry, then,” said George, “for I just made that part up.”
“_You_ did?” Lee looked incredulous. “Where do you come in? I’ve heard
that ever since I came here.”
“No, sir; you may have heard the rest of the story, but not the part
about the ghost. I wrote the yarn up in my junior year for an English
comp., and tacked on the ghost feature as a sort of added climax. Got
good marks, too, and the Orstead paper published the thing. I’ll show it
to you, if you like.”
Lee looked unconvinced still, and Starling disappointed. “Well, it’s a
good story, anyway, and makes the place more interesting. Some day I’ll
have a look myself for the hidden millions.”
“Guess the old chap never had that much,” said George. “Thirty or forty
thousand is about what he was supposed to have salted away.”
“Scarcely worth bothering about,” observed Laurie, with a yawn.
“But look here, what became of the servant?” asked Starling. “Maybe he
got the dough and made off with it.”
“Lots of folks thought that,” replied George; “but the theory didn’t pan
out for a cent. The negro stuck around here for quite a while and then
ambled off somewhere. He claimed that old Coventry died owing him a
month’s wages, and tried to get some one to pay him, but I guess he
never got any of it, if it was really owing.”
“Where did he go to?” asked Starling.
“I don’t know. New York City, I think.”
“I’ll bet he either had the money or knew where it was,” declared
Starling, with conviction. “Don’t you see, fellows, he did just what any
one would do in his case? He stuck around so he wouldn’t be suspected.
If he’d gone right off, folks would have said he was trying to avoid
being asked about the money. And then he faked up the yarn about the old
gentleman owing him wages. A first-class detective would have got trace
of the coin, I’ll wager!”
“You’ve been reading _Sherlock Holmes_,” laughed Lee. “Why don’t you
follow up your clue, find the negro, and restore the lost wealth to the
starving heirs?”
“Huh! If he did get the money, he’s where even _Sherlock Holmes_
wouldn’t find him by this time. Some one should have followed the fellow
and kept watch on him right then. How old was he, Watson?”
“About fifty, I guess. They say he had white whiskers, anyway. Oh, he
didn’t know any more than he said he did. He was all right. He had been
with old Coventry for years and years, one of those old-time family
servants, you know, honest and faithful. Why, he went on something
fierce when the old chap died!”
“Say, how much of this guff is real and how much of it is English
composition?” asked Lee, suspiciously. “How do you know the negro took
on when the old codger died? You weren’t here.”
“Maybe I heard it,” replied George, grinning.
“Yes, and maybe you just made it up, like the stuff about the ghost,”
Lee retorted sarcastically. “I’ve heard the yarn two or three times, but
I never heard that the negro had white whiskers or that he went into
mourning!”
“It’s a fact, though,” declared the other, warmly. “I prepared mighty
well on that comp.; talked with half a dozen persons who knew the story.
Got most of the stuff from the Widow Deane, though. Old Coventry had
been dead only about two years then and folks were still talking about
him. The Widow doesn’t think the old chap had nearly as much money as he
was supposed to have.”
“She has the little store around on the back street?” asked Starling.
“Yes. She took that as her share.”
“Her share of what?” demanded Lee.
“Why, of the estate. Old Coventry owned the whole half-block right
through from Walnut Street to Pine. She rented that house from him until
he died; paid a good stiff price, too; and then, when the estate was
finally settled, she took it as her share, although she had to pay the
other heirs something because they claimed that it was worth more than
she had a right to.”
“Look here,” said Lee, “do you mean that the Widow Deane was one of old
Coventry’s heirs?”
“Of course! Didn’t you know it? She was a half-sister. She lived over in
New Jersey, she told me, until her husband died. Then she wrote to old
Coventry, asking him to help her because she didn’t have much money, and
he invited her to come here. She thought he meant to give her a home
with him; but when she got here, the best he would do was rent her that
little house around on Pine Street and stock it up for her as a store.
Then he built a fence between the two places. It used to be open right
through.”
“Gee, you certainly know a lot of ancient history!” marveled Lee.
“I believe in being thorough,” laughed George. “When I tackle a subject
I get a fall out of it.”
“So when I trail the murderer—I mean the thief,” reflected Starling,
“I’ll be doing the old lady back there a good turn, won’t I?”
“Surest thing you know!” agreed George.
“And she needs the money, I guess. I don’t believe she makes a fortune
out of that emporium. And that daughter of hers is a nice kid, too.”
“How many other heirs are there to share in the money when Starling
finds it?” asked Laurie.
“I don’t know. Quite a bunch, I believe. The old chap wasn’t married,
and the heirs are nephews and nieces and things like that. The Widow’s
the only one living around here, though.”
“Well, when I do find it,” laughed Starling, “I’ll keep it quiet and
hand it all over to the Widow.”
“He wants to make a hit with Polly,” said Lee. “He’s a fox.”
“I’ve never seen her,” Starling denied.
“Well, she’s a mighty pretty girl,” George avowed. “If you don’t believe
me, ask Nod.”
Laurie looked intensely innocent and very surprised. “Why me?” he asked
blandly.
George shook his head, grinning. “You can’t get away with it, son! Think
I didn’t see you making love to the old lady this afternoon?”
“Well,” Laurie laughed, “I thought it was Polly you spoke of.”
“Sure, but she was busy waiting on a bunch of juniors and so you made up
to the Widow. We saw you smirking and talking sweet to her, didn’t we,
Lee? Butter wouldn’t have melted in the dear lamb’s mouth. And I thought
the old lady seemed rather taken with him, too; didn’t you, Lee?”
“Rather! It was positively sickening! Talk about foxes—”
“Oh, dry up and blow away!” muttered Laurie. “Say, the rain’s stopped
now—pretty nearly.”
“Wants to get away from the embarrassing subject,” George confided to
Starling. “Well, I never desert a pal, Nod. Come on, we’ll trot along.
Much obliged for taking us in, Starling. Hope we haven’t ruined your
rug. Half-past three to-morrow, if the courts are dry. I’ll meet you in
School Hall.”
“Glad to have you drop around at my room some time,” said Lee. “I’m in
West; Number 7.”
“Same here,” added Laurie; “16 East Hall. Thanks, Starling.”
“You’re welcome. Come in again, fellows. When I get that tennis-court
fixed up, we’ll have some fun here. You needn’t wait for that, though.
I’d like you to meet my father and aunt. No one’s at home just now. I
say, better take a couple of umbrellas.”
“Not worth it, thanks,” answered Lee. “After that deluge, this is just
an April shower. So long!”
Lee’s statement wasn’t much of an exaggeration, and the three continued
their way to the school unhurriedly. George remarked gloomily that it
didn’t look awfully promising for tennis on the morrow, adding: “I’ll
bet that chap’s a corking good player, too.”
“Maybe you’ll learn a little about the game from him,” said Laurie,
sweetly. “How old do you say he is?”
“Starling? Oh, seventeen, maybe. He’s in upper middle.”
“Sixteen, more likely,” said George. “He seems a decent sort, eh? How
did you come to know him?”
“I didn’t really know him. He’s in some of my classes and we’ve spoken a
couple of times. Rather a—an interesting kind of chap. Wonder what his
father does here. Funny place for him to come to. He spoke of an aunt,
but didn’t say anything about a mother. Guess she’s dead. Auntie
probably keeps house for them.”
As they entered the gate George chuckled and Laurie asked, “What’s your
trouble, Old-Timer!”
“I was just thinking what a joke it would be if Starling took that stuff
seriously about the hidden money and began to hack away the woodwork and
dig up the cellar floor!”
“Why, wasn’t it true?”
“Sure! At least, as true as anything is that folks tell. You know, Nod,
after being repeated a couple of hundred times a story sort of grows.”
Lee grunted. “After some smart Aleck has written it up as an English
comp. its own mother wouldn’t know it! The real joke would be for
Starling to wreck the woodwork and find the money!”
“No, that wouldn’t be a joke,” said George, “that would be a movie! Come
on! It’s starting again! Last man in East buys the sodas! Come on, Lee!”
Lee and Laurie ran a dead heat, and all the way to George’s room, on the
second floor, each sought to shift to the other the responsibility of
providing the soda-water for the trio. In the end, George appointed
himself referee and halved the responsibility between them.
When, twenty minutes later, Laurie climbed onward to Number 16, he found
a very disgruntled Ned curled up in the window-seat, which was now
plentifully supplied with cushions. “Where’ve you been all the
afternoon?” he demanded aggrievedly.
“Many places,” replied Laurie, cheerfully. “Why the grouch?”
“You’d have a grouch, I reckon, if you’d messed around with a soggy
football for almost two hours in a cloud-burst!”
“Did you—er—get wet?”
“Oh, no, I didn’t get wet! I carried an umbrella all the time, you silly
toad! Or maybe you think they roofed the gridiron over for us?”
“Well, I got sort of water-logged myself, and don’t you let any one tell
you any different! Wait till I return this rain-coat and I’ll tell you
about it.”
“I’ve got troubles enough of my own,” grumbled Ned, as Laurie crossed
the corridor.
Kewpie wasn’t in when the borrowed garment was returned, but Hop
Kendrick was, and Hop said it was quite all right, that Ned was welcome
to anything of Kewpie’s at any time, and please just stick it in the
closet or somewhere. And Laurie thanked him gratefully and placed the
rain-coat, which wasn’t very wet now, where he had found it. And the
incident would have ended then and there if it hadn’t started in to rain
cats and dogs again after supper and if Kewpie hadn’t taken it into his
head to pay a visit to a fellow in West Hall. Which is introductory to
the fact that at eight o’clock that evening, while Ned and Laurie were
conscientiously absorbed in preparing to-morrow’s Latin, a large and
irate youth appeared at the door of Number 16 with murder in his eyes
and what appeared to be gore on his hands!
“That’s a swell way to return a fellow’s coat!” he accused.
He brandished one gory hand dramatically, and with the other exhumed
from a pocket of the garment a moist and shapeless mass of brown paper
and chocolate creams. “Look at this!” he exhorted. “It—it’s all over
me! The pocket’s a regular glue-pot! Ugh!”
Laurie looked and his shoulders heaved.
“Oh, Kewpie!” he gurgled, contrition—or something—quite overmastering
him. “I’m s-s-so s-s-sorry!”
Kewpie regarded him scathingly a moment, while syrupy globules detached
themselves from the exhibit and ran along his wrist. Finally he
exploded: “Sorry! Yes, you are!”
Whereupon the door closed behind him with an indignant crash, and
Laurie, unable longer to contain his sorrow, dropped his head on his
books and gave way to it unrestrainedly.
CHAPTER IX—LAURIE HEARS NEWS
October arrived with the first touch of cooler weather, and the football
candidates, who had panted and perspired under summer conditions for a
fortnight, took heart. Among these was Ned. Laurie, who at first had had
to alternate sympathy and severity in order to keep his brother’s
courage to the sticking-point, now found that his encouragement was no
longer needed. Ned was quite as much in earnest as any fellow who wore
canvas. Probably he was not destined ever to become a mighty player, for
he seemed to lack that quality which coaches, unable to describe, call
football instinct. But he had made progress—surprising progress when it
is considered that he had known virtually nothing of the game two weeks
before.
Laurie, whose afternoons were still absorbed by baseball, viewed Ned’s
efforts as something of a joke, much to the latter’s chagrin, and
continued to do so until a chance conversation with Thurman Kendrick
opened his eyes. Hop had come across one forenoon to borrow some notes
and had tarried a moment to talk. In those days, when Hop talked he
talked of just one subject, and that subject was football, and he
introduced it to-day.
“We’ve got to do better to-morrow than we did last week,” he said
earnestly, “or we’ll get licked hard. Cole’s was fairly easy, but
Highland is a tough customer. Our trouble so far has been slowness, and
Highland’s as fast as they make them. Somehow, Mulford doesn’t seem able
to get any pep into our bunch. The line isn’t so bad, but the back
field’s like cold glue.”
“That’s up to the quarter, isn’t it?” asked Laurie, anxious to prove
himself not absolutely ignorant of the subject.
“Yes, partly; but it’s up to the coach first. If the backs aren’t used
to working fast, the quarter can’t make them. Frank Brattle’s a good
quarter, Nod. I sort of wish he wasn’t so good!”
“Meaning you’d have a better chance of swiping his job?” smiled Laurie.
“Oh, I’ll never do that; but if he wasn’t so good I’d get in more often.
The best I can hope for this year is to get in for maybe a full period
in the Farview game. Anyway, I’ll get my letter, and maybe next year
I’ll land in the position. Frank’s a senior, you know.”
“Is he? I haven’t seen much practice so far. Baseball keeps me pretty
busy.”
“How are you getting on?”
“Slow, I’m afraid. Anyway, you could easily tell Babe Ruth and me
apart!”
“I guess you’re doing better than you let on,” said Hop. “If you’re as
good at baseball as your brother is at football, you’ll do.”
“I guess I am,” laughed Laurie; “just about!”
“Well, Nid is surely coming fast,” replied Hop, gravely. “He’s been
doing some nice work the last few days.”
Laurie stared. “Say, what are you doing, Hop? Stringing me?” he
demanded.
“Stringing you?” Hop looked puzzled. “Why, no. How do you mean?”
“About Ned. Do you mean that he’s really playing football?”
“Why, of course I do. Didn’t you know it?”
Laurie shook his head. “He’s been telling me a lot of stuff, but I
thought he was just talking, the way I’ve been, to sort of keep his
courage up.”
“Nonsense! Nid’s doing mighty well. I don’t know how much experience
he’s had; some ways he acts sort of green; but he’s got Mason worried, I
guess. If he had another fifteen pounds he’d make the team sure. As it
is, I wouldn’t be surprised to see him play a whole lot this fall. You
see, he’s a pretty good punter, Nod, and yesterday he blossomed out as a
drop-kicker, too. Landed the ball over from about the thirty yards and
from a hard angle. Mason doesn’t do any kicking, and it’s no bad thing
to have a fellow in the back field who can help Pope out in a pinch.
It’s his kicking ability that’ll get him on if anything does.”
“I see,” said Laurie, thoughtfully. “Well, I’m mighty glad. To tell the
truth, Hop, Ned hasn’t had an awful lot of experience. He’s had to bluff
a good deal.”
“I suspected something of the sort from seeing him work the first week
or so. And then Kewpie said something that sort of lined up with the
idea. Well, he’s working hard and he’s making good. Much obliged for
these, Nod. I’ll fetch them back in ten minutes.”
When Kendrick had taken his departure Laurie stared thoughtfully for a
minute into space. Finally he shook his head and smiled. “Good old Ned!”
he murmured. “I’m sorry I ragged him so. Gee, I’ll have to buckle down
to my own job or he’ll leave me at the post!”
After practice that afternoon, Laurie and Lee picked up George and Bob
Starling at the tennis-courts, and, after changing into “cits,” went
around to the doctor’s porch and joined a dozen other lads who were
engaged in drinking Miss Tabitha’s weak tea and eating her
soul-satisfying layer-cake. After a half-hour of batting and fielding
practice and a five-inning game between the first team and the scrubs,
Laurie was in a most receptive mood as far as refreshments were
concerned. Miss Tabitha made an ideal hostess, for she left conversation
to the guests and occupied herself in seeing that cups and plates were
kept filled. No one had yet discovered the number of helpings of cake
that constituted Miss Tabitha’s limit of hospitality, and there was a
story of a junior so depressed by homesickness that he had
absent-mindedly consumed six wedges of it and was being urged to a
seventh when some inner voice uttered a saving warning. In spite of very
healthy appetites, none of the quartette sought to compete with that
record, but Laurie and George did allow themselves to be persuaded to
third helpings, declining most politely until they feared to decline any
more. Before they had finished, the doctor joined the group and made
himself very agreeable, telling several funny stories that set every one
laughing and caused a small junior—it was the cherub-faced youth who
sat at Laurie’s table in the dining-hall and whose career thus far had
proved anything but that of a cherub—to swallow a mouthful of mocha
cake the wrong way, with disastrous results. During the ensuing
confusion the quartette took their departure. At the gate Bob Starling
said:
“By the way, fellows, I spoke to Dad about that tennis-court, and he’s
written to the agent for permission. He says there won’t be any trouble;
and if there is, he’ll agree to put the garden back the way we found it
and erect a new arbor.”
“What will it be?” asked George. “Sod or gravel?”
“Oh, gravel. You couldn’t get a sod court in shape under a year, and I
want to use it this fall. I’m going to look around to-morrow for some
one to do the job. Know who does that sort of work here—Lee?”
“No, but I suppose you get a contractor; one of those fellows who build
roads and stone walls and things.”
“I’d ask at the court-house,” said Laurie.
“At the court—oh, that’s a punk one!” jeered Bob. “See you later,
fellows!”
The game with Highland Academy was played across the river at Lookout,
and most of the fellows went. In spite of Hop Kendrick’s pessimistic
prophecy, Hillman’s took command of the situation in the first quarter
and held it undisturbed to the final whistle. The contest was, if not
extremely fast, well played by both teams, and the hosts refused to
acknowledge defeat until the end. Captain Stevenson, at left tackle, was
the bright, particular star of the day, with the redoubtable Pope a good
second.
It was Joe Stevenson’s capture of a fumbled ball in the first five
minutes of play and his amazing run through the enemy ranks that
produced the initial score. Pope kicked an easy goal after Slavin, right
half, had plunged through for a touch-down. Later in the game, Pope had
added three more points by a place-kick from the forty-two yards.
Highland twice reached the Blue’s ten-yard line, the first time losing
the ball on downs, and the next attempting a forward pass that went
astray. Her one opportunity to score by a kick was wrecked by no other
than Kewpie, who, having substituted Holmes at the beginning of the
second half, somehow shot his hundred and seventy pounds through the
defense and met the pigskin with his nose. Kewpie presented a
disreputable appearance for several days, but was given due honor.
Hillman’s returned across the Hudson in the twilight of early October
with exultant cheers and songs.
Ned watched that game from the substitutes’ bench, just as he had
watched the two preceding contests, but a newly awakened _esprit de
corps_ forbade complaining. When Laurie sympathetically observed that he
thought it was time Mulford gave Ned a chance in a real game, Ned
responded with dignity, almost with severity, that he guessed the coach
knew his business.
The first of the month—or, to be exact, the fourth—brought the twins
their monthly allowances, and one of the first things Laurie did was to
go to the little blue shop on Pine Street and pay his bill, which had
reached its prescribed limit several days before. Ned went, too,
although he didn’t display much enthusiasm over the mission. Ned held
that, having created a bill, it was all wrong deliberately to destroy
it. To his mind, a bill was something to cherish and preserve. Laurie,
however, pointed out that, since one was prohibited from further
transactions at the Widow’s, even on a cash basis, as long as one owed
money there, it would be wise to cancel the debts. Ned recognized the
wisdom of the statement and reluctantly parted with ninety-seven cents.
Since it was only a little after two o’clock, the shop was empty when
the twins entered, and Polly and her mother were just finishing their
lunch in the back room. It was Polly who answered the tinkle of the bell
and who, after some frowning and turning of pages in the account-book,
canceled the indebtedness.
“Now,” said Ned, “I guess I’ll have a cream-cake. Want one, Laurie?”
Laurie did, in spite of the fact that it was less than an hour since
dinner. Mrs. Deane appeared at the door, observed the proceeding, and
smiled.
“I’m real glad to see you’re still alive,” she said to Ned. “I guess he
must take very good care of you.”
“Yes’m, I do,” Laurie assured her gravely.
Ned laughed scornfully, or as scornfully as it was possible to laugh
with his mouth full. “You shouldn’t believe everything he tells you,
Mrs. Deane. I have to look after him like a baby. Why, he wouldn’t get
down in time for breakfast if I didn’t put most of his clothes on.”
“That’s no joke, either,” retorted Laurie, “about you putting my clothes
on. You’re wearing one of my collars and my best socks right now,
and—yes, sir, that’s my blue tie!”
“Wait a bit, partner! Where’d you get that shirt you’re wearing?”
“That’s different,” answered Laurie, with dignity. “Mine are all in the
wash. Besides, it’s an old one and you never wear it.”
“I never get a chance to wear it!”
“It must be very convenient for you,” said Mrs. Deane, smilingly, “to be
able to wear each other’s things. Polly, I guess there won’t be any one
else in for a while; maybe they’d like to see your garden.”
Being assured that they would, Polly led the way through the back room,
a pleasant, sunny apartment evidently combining the duties of kitchen
and dining-room, and out to a little back porch shaded by
morning-glories and nasturtiums that fairly ran riot over the green
lattice. There was a braided rug on the floor and a small rocker and a
tiny table on which were books and a magazine or two. The books were
evidently Polly’s school books, for they were held together by a strap.
The twins liked that garden. It wasn’t very large, for when the peculiar
Mr. Coventry had divided the estate he had placed the high board fence
very close to the little frame dwelling; but perhaps its very smallness
made it seem more attractive. Narrow beds encompassed it on three sides,
and a gravel walk followed the beds. In the tiny square inside, a small
rustic arbor, covered with climbing rose-vines, held a seat that, as was
presently proved, accommodated three very comfortably.
But before they were allowed to sit down the boys had to be shown many
things: the hollyhocks against the back fence, the flowering almond that
had been brought all the way from the old home in New Jersey,—and had
never quite made up its mind whether to die of homesickness or go on
living,—the bed of lilies-of-the-valley that just _wouldn’t_ keep out
of the path and many other floral treasures. Nasturtiums and
morning-glories and scarlet sage and crinkly-edged white and lavender
petunias were still blossoming gaily, and there was even a cluster of
white roses on the arbor, for, so far, no frost had come. The twins
admired properly and Polly was all smiles, until suddenly she said,
“O-oh!” and faced them reproachfully.
“You’ve just let me go on and be perfectly ridiculous!” she charged. “I
don’t think it’s a bit nice of you!”
“Why, what—how do you mean?” stammered Ned.
“You have the most wonderful flowers in the world in California, and you
know it!” she replied severely; “and you’ve let me show you these poor
little things as if—as if they were anything at all in comparison! I
forgot you came from California.”
“Maybe we didn’t tell you,” offered Laurie. “Anyway, your flowers—”
“In California they have hedges of geraniums and roses climb right over
the houses, and orange-trees and palms and everything,” interrupted
Polly, breathlessly. “Why, this garden must seem perfectly—perfectly
_awful_ to you!”
“Don’t you believe it!” denied Ned. “Flowers and things do grow bigger,
I suppose, out our way; but they aren’t a bit prettier, are they,
Laurie?”
“Not so pretty,” answered the other, earnestly. “Besides, _I_ never saw
a geranium hedge in my life. Maybe they have them in some places, like
Pasadena, but there isn’t _one_ in Santa Lucia, honest. There isn’t, is
there, Ned?”
“_I_ never saw one. And palms aren’t awfully pretty. They get sort of
scraggly-looking sometimes. Honest, Polly, I never saw a garden any
prettier and cuter than this is. Of course, some are bigger and—and
more magnificent—”
“Who wants a magnificent garden?” demanded Laurie, scornfully. “What
have you got in the box, Polly?”
Comforted, Polly smiled again. “That’s Antoinette,” she said. “Come and
see.”
Antoinette lived in a wooden box in the shelter of the porch, and had
long ears and very blue eyes and a nose that twitched funnily when they
approached. In short, Antoinette was a fluffy smoke-gray rabbit. “She
has a dreadfully long pedigree,” said Polly, as she took Antoinette out
and snuggled her in her arms.
“Has she?” murmured Laurie. “I thought it looked rather short.”
“A pedigree isn’t a _tail_, you idiot,” said Ned, scathingly. “She’s
awfully pretty, Polly. Will she bite?”
“Of course not! At least, not unless you look like a cabbage-leaf.”
“I wouldn’t take a chance,” Laurie advised. “Any one who’s as green as
you are—”
“She _tries_ to eat ’most everything,” said Polly, “but she likes
cabbage and lettuce and carrots best.”
“I wish I had a cabbage,” muttered Laurie, searching his pockets; “or a
carrot. You haven’t a carrot with you, have you, Ned?”
“You’re the silliest boys!” laughed Polly, returning Antoinette to her
box. “Let’s go and sit down a minute.” And when they were on the seat
under the arbor and she had smoothed her skirt and tucked a pair of
rather soiled white canvas shoes from sight, she announced, “There! Now
you can make up a verse about something!”
CHAPTER X—POLLY ENTERTAINS
“Make up a—what did you say?” asked Ned.
“Make up a verse,” answered Polly, placidly. “As you did the other day
when you went out. Don’t you remember?”
“Oh!” Laurie looked somewhat embarrassed and a trifle silly. “Why, you
see—we only do that when—when—”
“When we have inspiration,” aided Ned, glibly.
“Yes, that’s it, inspiration! We—we have to have inspiration.”
“I’m sure Antoinette ought to be enough inspiration to any poet,”
returned Polly, laughing. “You know you never saw a more beautiful
rabbit in your life—lives, I mean.”
Ned looked inquiringly at Laurie. Then he said, “Well, maybe if I close
my eyes a minute—” He suited action to word. Polly viewed him with
eager interest; Laurie, with misgiving. Finally, after a moment of
silent suspense, his eyelids flickered and:
“O Antoinette, most lovely of thy kind!” he declaimed.
“Thou eatest cabbages and watermelon rind!” finished Laurie, promptly.
Polly clapped her hands, but her approval was short-lived. “But she
doesn’t eatest watermelon rind,” she declared indignantly. “I’m sure it
wouldn’t be at all good for her!”
Laurie grinned. “That’s what we call poetic license,” he explained.
“When you make a rhyme, sometimes you’ve got to—to sacrifice truth
for—in the interests of—I mean, you’ve got to think of the _sound_!
‘Kind’ and ‘carrot’ wouldn’t sound _right_, don’t you see?”
“Well, I’m sure watermelon rind doesn’t sound right, either,” objected
Polly; “not for a rabbit. Rabbits have very delicate digestions.”
“We might change it,” offered Ned. “How would this do?
“O Antoinette, more lovely than a parrot,
Thou dost subsist on cabbages and carrot.”
“That’s silly,” said Polly, scornfully.
“Poetry usually is silly,” Ned answered.
Laurie, who had been gazing raptly at his shoes, broke forth exultantly.
“I’ve got it!” he cried. “Listen!
“O Antoinette, most beauteous of rabbits,
Be mine and I will feed thee naught but cabbits!”
A brief silence followed. Then Ned asked, “What are cabbits?”
“Cabbits are vegetables,” replied Laurie.
“I never heard of them,” said Polly, wrinkling her forehead.
“Neither did any one else,” laughed Ned. “He just made them up to rhyme
with rabbits.”
“A cabbit,” said Laurie, loftily, “is something between a cabbage and a
carrot.”
“What does it look like?” giggled Polly.
Laurie blinked. “We-ell, you’ve seen a—you’ve seen an artichoke,
haven’t you?” Polly nodded and Laurie blinked again. “And you’ve seen
a—a mangel-wurzel?”
“No, I don’t think so.”
“Then I don’t see how I can tell you,” said Laurie, evidently relieved,
“because a cabbit is more like a mangel-wurzel than anything else. Of
course, it’s not so deciduous, and the shape is different; it’s more
obvate than a mangel-wurzel; more—” he swept his hands vaguely in
air—“more phenomenal.”
“Oh, dry up,” said Ned, grinning. “How’d you like to have to put up with
an idiot like that all your life, Polly? The worst of it is, folks
sometimes mistake him for me!”
“Yes, it’s awful, but I manage to bear up under it,” Laurie sighed.
“How did you ever come to think of making those funny rhymes?” Polly
asked.
“Oh, we had measles once, about four years ago,” said Ned. “We always
had everything together—measles, whooping-cough, scarlet fever,
everything. And when we were getting over it they wouldn’t let us read
and so we made up rhymes. I forget whose idea it was. I’d make up one
line and Laurie would make up the other, or the other way round. The
idea was to have the last word of the first line so hard that the other
fellow couldn’t rhyme to it. But I guess I only stuck Laurie once. Then
the word was lemon.”
“You didn’t really stick me then,” Laurie denied. “I rhymed it with
demon. You said they didn’t rhyme, but I showed you a rhyming dictionary
that said they did.”
“The dictionary said it was an imperfect rhyme, Laurie, and—”
“Just the same, a rhyme’s a rhyme. Say, Ned, remember the one we made up
about Miss Yetter?” Ned nodded and grinned. “Miss Yetter was our nurse.
We thought it was pretty clever, but she didn’t like it.
“When feeling ill send for Miss Yetter.
If you don’t die, she’ll make you better.”
“She was quite insulted about it,” laughed Ned, “and told Dad; and he
tried to lecture us, but we got laughing so he couldn’t. We made rhymes
all the time for a while and nearly drove folks crazy; and finally Dad
said if we didn’t stop it he’d whale us. And I said, ‘All right, sir,
we’ll try not to do it’; and Laurie, the chump, butted in with, ‘’Cause
if we do, we know we’ll rue it!’ We nearly got the licking right then!”
“You _are_ funny!” laughed Polly. “Is your mother—haven’t you—”
“She died when we were kids,” answered Laurie. “I just remember her, but
Ned doesn’t.”
“You think you do. You’ve just heard Dad, and nurse talk about her. We
were only four when Mother died.”
Laurie looked unconvinced, but didn’t argue the matter. Instead he
asked, “Your father’s dead, isn’t he, Polly?”
“Yes, he died when I was eight. He was a dear, and I missed him just
terribly. Mother says I look like him. He was very tall and was always
laughing. Mother says he laughed so much he didn’t have time for
anything else. She means that he wasn’t—wasn’t very successful. We were
very poor when he died. But I guess he was lots nicer than he would have
been if he had just been—successful. I guess the most successful man in
this town is Mr. Sparks, the banker, and no one has ever seen him laugh
once. And Uncle Peter was successful, too, I suppose; and he was just as
sour and ill-tempered as anything. He wasn’t my real uncle, but I called
him that because Mother said it would please him. It didn’t seem to.”
“Was that Mr. Coventry?” asked Laurie. “The mis—I mean the man who
lived in the big square house over there?”
“Yes. And I don’t mind your calling him the miser, because that is just
what he was. He was Mother’s half-brother, but he didn’t act as if he
was even a quarter-brother! He was always just as horrid as he could be.
When Father died he wrote Mother to come here and he would provide her
with a home. And when we came, we found he meant that Mother was to live
here and pay him rent. She didn’t have enough money to do that, and so
Uncle Peter made the front of the house into a store and bought some
things for her and made her sign a mortgage or something. When he died,
we thought maybe he had left Mother a little; but there wasn’t any will,
and not much property, either—just the big house on Walnut Street and
this place and about two thousand dollars. When the property was
divided, Mother got the other heirs to let her have this as her portion
of the estate, but she had to pay four hundred and fifty dollars for it.
That took about all she had saved and more, and so we haven’t been able
to do much to the house yet.”
“It doesn’t look as if it needed much doing to,” said Ned, critically.
“Oh, but it does! It needs a new coat of paint, for one thing. And some
of the blinds are broken. And there ought to be a furnace in it. Stoves
don’t really keep it warm in winter. Some day we’ll fix it up nicely,
though. As soon as I get through high school, I’m going to work and make
a lot of money.”
“Attaboy!” approved Ned. “What are you going to do, Polly?”
“I’m learning stenography and typewriting, and Mr. Farmer, the
lawyer,—he’s the one who got the others to let Mother have the house
when Uncle Peter’s estate was settled,—says he will find a place for me
in his office. He’s awfully nice. Some stenographers make lots of money,
don’t they?”
“I guess so,” Ned agreed. “There’s a woman in Dad’s office who gets
eighteen dollars a week.”
Polly clasped her hands delightedly. “Maybe I wouldn’t get that much,
though. I guess Mr. Farmer doesn’t pay his stenographer very high wages.
Maybe I’d get twelve dollars, though. Don’t you think I might?”
“Sure!” said Laurie. “Don’t you let any one tell you any different.
Didn’t folks think that your Uncle Peter left more money than was found,
Polly?”
“Oh, yes; but no one really knew. The lawyers looked everywhere. If he
did have any more, he must have hidden it away pretty well. They looked
all through the house and dug holes in the cellar floor. It was very
exciting. Mother thinks he lost what money he had speculating in stocks
and things. He used to go to New York about four times a year. No one
knew what he did there, not even Hilary; but Mother thinks he went to
see men who deal in stocks and that they got his money away from him.”
“Who is Hilary?” Laurie inquired.
“Hilary was a colored man that Uncle had had a long time. It seemed to
me that if Uncle had had much money, Hilary would have known about it;
and he didn’t.”
“Where is he now? Hilary, I mean,” added Laurie, somewhat unnecessarily.
“I don’t know. He went away a little while after Uncle Peter died. He
said he was going to New York, I think.”
“You don’t suppose he took the money with him, do you? I mean—”
“Oh no!” Polly seemed quite horrified. “Hilary was just as honest as
honest! Why, Uncle Peter died owing him almost forty dollars and Hilary
never got a cent of it! The lawyers were too mean for anything!”
“There’s a fellow named Starling living there now,” Laurie said. “His
father’s rented the house for three years. Bob says that he’s going to
find the money and give it to your mother.”
Polly laughed. “Oh, I wish that he would! But I guess if the lawyers
couldn’t find it he never will. Lawyers, they say, can find money when
nobody else can! Is he nice?”
“Bob? Yes, he’s a dandy chap. You ought to know him, Polly; he’s your
next-door neighbor.”
“Back-door neighbor, you mean,” interpolated Ned.
“I think I saw him in the garden one day,” said Polly. “His father is an
engineer, Mae Ferrand says, and he’s building a big bridge for the
railway. Or maybe it’s a tunnel. I forget.”
“Is Mae Something the girl with the molasses-candy hair you were with at
the high school game?” Laurie asked.
“Yes, but her hair isn’t like molasses candy. It’s perfectly lovely
hair. It’s like—like diluted sunshine!”
Laurie whistled. “Gee! Did you get that, Neddie? Well, anyway, I like
dark hair better.”
“Oh, I don’t! I’d love to have hair like Mae’s. And, what do you think,
she likes my hair better than her own!”
“Don’t blame her,” said Laurie. “What do you say, Ned?”
“I say I’ve got to beat it back and get into football togs. What time is
it?”
“Look at your own watch, you lazy loafer. Well, come on. I say, Polly,
would your mother let you go to the game with me Saturday? That is, if
you want to, of course.”
“Oh, I’d love to! But—I’ll ask her, anyway. And if she says I may,
would you mind if Mae went too? We usually go together to the games.”
“Not a bit. I’ll be around again before Saturday and see what she says.”
“I wouldn’t be surprised if she said yes,” remarked Polly. “I think she
must like you boys. Anyway, you’re the first of the Hillman’s boys she
has ever let me invite out here.”
“Really? Bully for her! Wait till I say farewell to Antoinette, ‘most
beauteous of rabbits!’ What does she twitch her nose like that for?”
“I think she’s asking for some cabbits,” replied Polly, gravely.
“She’s making faces at you, you chump,” said Ned, rudely. “Come on.”
They returned through the little living-room, empty save for a big black
cat asleep in a rocking-chair, and found Mrs. Deane serving the first of
the afternoon trade in the shop beyond. They said good afternoon to her
very politely, and Polly went to the door with them. Outside on the
walk, Ned nudged Laurie, and they paused side by side and gravely
removed their caps.
“We give you thanks and say farewell, Miss Polly.”
“The visit’s been, indeed, most jolly!”
CHAPTER XI—NED SPEAKS OUT
There was a cut in the football squad that afternoon and more than a
dozen candidates were retired, leaving twenty-eight players for the
first and scrub teams. Ned survived, as, indeed, he expected to; for,
while he knew his limitations, neither the coach nor the captain
appeared to. Perhaps they were sometimes puzzled over flashes of
ineptitude, or perhaps they put them down to temporary reversals of
form; at least, Ned’s talent was never seriously questioned by them. He
had settled down as a regular half-back on the scrub eleven, although
twice he had been called on in practice scrimmages to take Mason’s place
at left half on the first squad. He was too light to make much headway
in bucking plays, and his inability to start quickly handicapped him
frequently in running; but as a kicker he was dependable and had
developed a quite remarkable accuracy at forward passing. Against a
light opponent or a slow one he could be counted on to play a fairly
good game, although so far he had not been allowed the opportunity. With
him on the scrub team was Hop Kendrick at quarter, and, for a time,
Kewpie at center. But Kewpie had trained down at last to a hundred and
sixty-five pounds and was handling his weight and bulk with a new
snappiness, and a few days after Ned became a part of the scrub outfit
Kewpie was elevated to the first team, and a much disgruntled Holmes
took his place on the second.
With the defeat of Wagner School, Hillman’s ended her preliminary
season. In that contest, played at home, the Blue showed a new
aggressiveness and much more speed; and, while she was able to score
only one touch-down, and Pope failed miserably at goal, every one was
well satisfied. Wagner had a strong team, and a victory over it was no
small triumph. Hillman’s line held splendidly under the battering-ram
tactics of the adversary, and her backs were fast and shifty. On attack,
the Blue failed to gain consistently; but in the third period, with a
captured fumble on Wagner’s thirty-three yards for encouragement, Pope
got free for half the distance, and Slavin and Mason, alternating,
worked the enemy’s left side until the ball lay on the five-yard line.
Then a fake attack on Wagner’s right, with Pope carrying the ball
through on the left of center, brought the only score of the day. Kewpie
proved himself that afternoon, for he was a veritable Rock of Gibraltar
on defense and a hundred and sixty-five pounds of steel springs on
attack. The Blue team was far from a perfect machine yet, but it seemed
that Mulford had found his parts and that only a generous oiling was
needed.
Laurie and George Watson escorted Polly and Mae Ferrand to the game,
and, although aware of the covert grins and whispered witticisms of
acquaintances, enjoyed themselves hugely. Mae proved to be a very jolly,
wholesome sort of girl, and her knowledge of what may be termed “inside
football” was stupendous and made both Laurie and George rather ashamed
of their ignorance. Between the halves, Ned, arrayed in a trailing gray
blanket, joined them and promptly became involved with Mae in a very
technical argument that no one else could follow. From the fact that Ned
retired with a rather dispirited expression when the teams came on
again, Laurie surmised that the honors had gone to Mae.
The following Monday evening, while the enthusiasm produced by the
victory over Wagner School was still undiminished, a second mass-meeting
was held in the auditorium to devise means of replenishing the football
treasury: Three of the remaining five games were to be played away from
Orstead, and in two cases the distance to be traveled was considerable
and the expenses consequently large. As Joe Stevenson said, introducing
the subject for discussion, if Hillman’s charged admission to her home
games, it would be possible to get through a season without asking for
assistance from the student body. “But you fellows know that that isn’t
the school policy. We are allowed to sell tickets for the Farview game
only, and, while we make about four hundred and fifty dollars as our
share, that doesn’t go very far against the season’s outlay. We have to
pay from seventy-five to a hundred and twenty-five dollars to every team
that comes here to play us. When we go away we seldom make enough to pay
our expenses. In the Highland game, because it cost us almost nothing
for fares, we did. At the present moment we have a cash balance on hand
of forty-three dollars, and our liabilities, including Mr. Mulford’s
salary for the remainder of the season, are about eight hundred dollars.
“The manager estimates that we’ll have to incur added expenses for about
a hundred and twenty dollars for Farview game tickets and new supplies.
In short, we shall have to pay out, before the season ends, about nine
hundred dollars. Against that we have on hand forty-three dollars, and
in prospect something like five hundred, leaving us about three hundred
and fifty in the hole.
“There has been talk of cutting out the Lansing and Whittier games, but
that wouldn’t make enough difference. Besides, it would give us a black
eye to cancel games as late as this. We might save perhaps seventy
dollars if we did, but it would cost us ten times that in public
estimation. As far as I can see, fellows, if we’re going to have a
football team, we’ve got to pay for it. We’ve asked permission to charge
admission, even a nominal one, to all games, but the faculty is against
it. And we have asked to have a regular assessment made against each
student. To many of us that would seem the fairer and most satisfactory
way of meeting the emergency. But the faculty doesn’t like that any
better than the other proposition. So I guess it’s up to us, each and
every one of us, to dig down and produce the coin.
“We need three hundred and fifty dollars at least. That means that every
fellow in school must pony up four dollars, or, rather, that the average
must be four dollars each. Some of you can’t give so much, probably, and
a few can give more. I’d like to hear from you, please. Don’t be afraid
to say what you think. We want to get together on this matter and thrash
it out, if it takes until ten o’clock. Any one who has any suggestion to
offer or anything to say will be heard. Come on, somebody!”
There were plenty of speakers: Dave Brewster, the baseball captain, Dan
Whipple, senior class president, Lew Cooper, upper middle class
president, Dave Murray, the manager of the team, Craig Jones, for the
lower middlers, and many others, Some subscribed to the donation scheme,
others opposed it. Cooper suggested an appeal to the school alumni.
Brewster pointed out that the effort would cost money and that the
result would be uncertain and, in any case, slow. An increase in the
price of tickets to the Farview game was discussed and the idea
abandoned. An hour passed and the meeting was getting nowhere. Some of
the younger boys had already withdrawn. A tall, lantern-jawed youth had
charged the football committee with extravagance, and Dave Murray had
bitterly resented the allegation. Ned, who, with Laurie and Lee Murdock,
was seated near the back of the hall, had shown signs of restiveness for
some time and had been muttering to himself. Now, to the surprise of his
companions, he jumped to his feet and demanded recognition:
“Mr. Chairman!”
“Mister—” Dan Whipple pointed a finger at Ned and nodded.
“Turner,” prompted Kewpie from a front seat.
“Mr. Turner,” encouraged the chairman.
“I’d like to say that I never heard so much talking and saw so little
action,” began Ned, impatiently. “What’s the matter with some one saying
something useful instead of just chewing the rag?”
“You tell ’em,” piped a small junior, above the applause and laughter.
“All right! I’ll tell you fellows that you’re a lot of pikers to
hesitate to pledge three or four hundred dollars to keep your team
going. Where I come from we had to have a new grand stand two years ago,
and we called a meeting like this and we raised seven hundred dollars in
thirty-five minutes in cash and pledges. There were a lot more of us,
but half of us would have felt like Rockefellers if we’d ever found a
whole half-dollar in our pockets! Some of us gave as high as five
dollars, but not many. Most of us pledged two dollars; and those who
didn’t have two dollars went out and worked until they’d made it, by
jingo! And we got our grand stand up inside of two weeks, in time for
the big baseball game.”
There was real applause this time, and those in the front of the hall
had swung around to have a look at the earnest youth who was calling
them names.
“That’s one way of getting the money,” continued Ned, warming up finely,
“but there’s another. Out my way—”
“Say, where do you come from?” called some one.
“I come from California,” answered Ned, proudly. “Maybe you’ve heard of
it!”
“Attaboy!” shouted Kewpie. “Swing your leg, Nid!”
“When we want to raise some money out there and folks are too stingy to
give it outright, we take it away from them another way. We get up a
fête. We give them a good time and they pay for it. Why not try it here?
I don’t know how many folks there are in this burg, but I reckon there
are enough to part with three or four hundred dollars. Give them an
excuse to spend their money and they’ll spend it!”
Ned sat down amid loud applause, and Dave Brewster was recognized,
although half a dozen others were clamoring for speech.
“Turner’s said something, fellows,” declared Brewster. “The idea’s worth
considering. We’ve never tackled the town folks for money, and there’s
no reason why they shouldn’t come across. They’ve come to our games for
years without paying a cent, except for the Farview game, and it
wouldn’t hurt them to give a little to a good cause. I don’t know what
sort of a fête Turner has in mind, but I should think we might get up
something that would do the business.”
“Mr. Chairman,” said Kewpie, “I move that a committee of three be
appointed by the chair, to include Nid,—I mean Mr. Turner,—to consider
the—the matter of giving a fête to raise the money.”
“Seconded!”
“You have heard the motion,” droned Whipple. “All those in favor will so
signify by saying ‘Aye.’ Contrary, ‘No.’ Moved and carried. I will
appoint the presidents of the senior and upper middle classes and Mr.
Turner to the committee, three in all. Is it the sense of this meeting
that your committee is to report to it at a subsequent meeting, or is it
to have authority to proceed with the matter if it decides that the
scheme is a good one?”
“Full authority, Mr. Chairman!” “Let ’em go ahead with it!” “Sure!
That’s what we want. Let’s have action!”
“Is there any other business? Then I declare the meeting adjourned!”
Whipple captured Ned on the way out. “We’d better get together right
away on this, Turner,” he said. “Can you meet Cooper and me at my room
to-morrow at twelve?”
Ned agreed, and he and Laurie and Lee went on. “What I’d like to know,”
remarked Laurie, after a moment’s silence, “is how you’re going to have
a fête in a place like this. The weather’s too cold for it.”
“Maybe it will be warmer,” answered Ned, cheerfully. “Besides, we don’t
have to have it outdoors.”
“It wouldn’t be a fête if you didn’t,” sniffed the other.
“Well, what’s the difference? Call it anything you like. The big thing
is to get the money.”
“You had your cheek with you to talk the way you did,” chuckled Laurie.
“He talked sense, though,” asserted Lee, warmly.
“Of course. The Turners always do.” Laurie steered Ned toward the
entrance of East Hall. “Well, good night, Lee. See you at the fête!”
Upstairs, Ned tossed his cap to the bed, plumped himself into a chair at
the table, and drew paper and pencil to him. “Now,” he said, “let’s
figure this out. I’ve got to talk turkey to those fellows to-morrow.
What’s your idea, partner?”
“Hey, where do you get that stuff?” demanded Laurie. “Why drag me into
it? It’s not my fête. I don’t own it.”
“Shut up and sit down there before I punch your head. You’ve got to help
with this. The honor of the Turners is at stake!”
So Laurie subsided and for more than an hour he and Ned racked their
brains and gradually the plan took shape.
CHAPTER XII—THE COMMITTEE ON ARRANGEMENTS
“It’s like this,” explained Ned. He and Laurie and Polly and Mae Ferrand
were in the little garden behind the shop. The girls were on the bench
and the boys were seated on the turf before the arbor, their knees
encircled with their arms. A few yards away Antoinette eyed them gravely
and twitched her nose. On the porch step, Towser, the big black cat,
blinked benignly, sometimes shifting his gaze to the branches of the
maple in the next yard, where an impudent black-and-white woodpecker was
seeking a late luncheon.
“There are two sub-committees,” continued Ned, earnestly. “Whipple and
Cooper are the Committee on Finance and Publicity, and Laurie and I are
the Committee on Arrangements. I told them I had to have help and so
they took Laurie in.”
“No thanks to you,” grumbled Laurie, who was, however, secretly much
pleased.
“It’s going to be next Saturday afternoon and evening, and this is
Tuesday, and so there isn’t much time. We were afraid to make it any
later because the weather might get too cold. Besides, the team needs
the money right off. I looked in an almanac and it said that next
Saturday would be fair and warm, so that’s all right.”
“But don’t you think almanacs make mistakes sometimes?” asked Polly. “I
know ours does. When we had our high-school picnic, the almanac said
‘showers’ and it was a perfectly gorgeous day. I carried my mackintosh
around all day and it was a perfect nuisance. Don’t you remember, Mae?”
“Well, you’ve got to believe in something,” declared Ned. “Anyway, we’re
going to have it at Bob Starling’s, and if it’s too cold outdoors, we’ll
move inside.”
“You mean at Uncle Peter’s?” exclaimed Polly.
“Yes. We thought of having it at school first, but Mr. Hillman didn’t
like it much; and besides, the fellows would be inside without having to
pay to get there! You see, it’s going to cost every one a quarter just
to get in.”
“And how much to get out?” asked Mae, innocently.
Ned grinned. “As much as we can get away from them. There’ll be twelve
booths to sell things in—”
“What sort of things?” Polly inquired.
“All sorts. Eats and drinks and everything. We’re getting the
storekeepers to donate things. So far they’ve just given us things that
they haven’t been able to sell, a pile of junk; but we’re going to stop
that. Biddle, the hardware man, gave us a dozen cheap pocket-knives, but
he’s got to come across again. We’ve been to only eight of them so far,
but we haven’t done so worse. Guess we’ve got enough truck for one booth
already. And then there’ll be one of them for a rummage sale. We’re
going to get each of the fellows to give us something for that, and I’ll
bet we’ll have a fine lot of truck. Each booth will represent a college
and be decorated in the proper colors: Yale, Harvard, Princeton, and so
on. And—and now it’s your turn, Laurie.”
“Yes, I notice that I always have to do the dirty work,” said the other.
He hugged his knees tighter, rolled over on his back for inspiration,
and, when he again faced his audience on the bench, smiled his nicest.
“Here’s where you girls come in,” he announced. “We want you two to take
two of the booths and get a girl for each of the others. Want to?”
“Oh, it would be darling!” cried Polly.
“I’d love to!” said Mae.
“Only—”
“Only—”
“Only what!” asked Ned, as the girls viewed each other doubtfully.
“I’m not sure Mother would let me,” sighed Polly. “Do you think she
would, Mae?”
“I don’t believe so. And I don’t believe Mama would let me. She—she’s
awfully particular that way.”
“Gee!” said Ned, in disappointed tones, “I don’t see why not! It isn’t
as if—”
“Of course it isn’t,” agreed Laurie. “Besides, your mothers would be
there too!”
“Would they?” asked Mae, uncertainly.
“Of course! Every one’s coming! What harm would there be in it? You can
do things for—for charity that you can’t do any other time! All you’d
have to do would be to just stand behind the booth and sell things. It
won’t be hard. Everything will have the price marked on it and—”
“You won’t need to go by the prices always, though,” interpolated Ned.
“I mean, if you can get more than the thing is marked, you’d better do
it! And then there’s the—the costumes, Laurie.”
“Oh, yes, I forgot. We’d like each girl to sort of wear something that
would sort of match the college she represented—sort of,” he explained
apologetically. “If you had the Yale booth, you could wear a dark-blue
waist, and so on. Do you think that would be possible?”
Polly giggled. “We might ask Stella Hatch to take the Harvard booth,
Mae. With her hair, she wouldn’t have to dress much!”
“And you and Polly could take your first pick,” observed Laurie,
craftily. “You’d look swell as—as Dartmouth, Mae!”
“In _green_! My gracious, Ned! No, thank you! But Polly ought to be
Yale. She looks lovely in blue. I think I’d like to be Cornell. My
brother Harry’s in Cornell.”
“All right,” agreed Ned. “I wish you’d ask your mothers soon, will you?
Do try, because we’ve just got to get girls for the booths. You’d have
lots of fun, too. The Banjo and Mandolin Club is going to play for
dancing for an hour at five and nine, and there’ll be an entertainment,
too.”
“What sort?” asked Polly.
“We don’t know yet. Some of the gymnastic team will do stunts, I think,
for one thing, and there’ll be singing and maybe Laurie will do some
rope-swinging—”
“I told you a dozen times I wouldn’t! Besides, I haven’t any rope.”
“We can find one, probably,” replied his brother, untroubled. “We
haven’t settled about the entertainment yet. And there are two or three
other things we haven’t got to. Starling’s going to have his garden all
fixed up, and he’s going to cover the old arbor with branches and hang
Chinese lanterns in it and have little tables and chairs there for folks
to sit down and eat ice-cream and cake.
“And that reminds me, Polly. Do you suppose that Miss Comfort would make
some cakes for us?”
“Why, yes, Nid, but—but you’d have to _buy_ them. I don’t think you
ought to expect her to _donate_ them.”
“We meant to buy them, of course, Polly. And we wondered if your mother
would make some of those dandy cream-puffs.”
“I’m sure she will. How many would you want?”
“I don’t know. You see, there’s no way of telling how many will come.
There are three thousand people in Orstead, but that doesn’t mean much,
does it? The ‘Messenger’ editor’s agreed to put in an advertisement for
us for nothing, and there’ll be notices all around town in the windows:
we got the man who prints the school monthly to do them for just the
cost of the paper. So folks ought to come, shouldn’t you think?”
“Oh, I’m sure they will!” agreed Polly, and Mae echoed her. “But it’ll
be dreadfully hard to know how much cake and ice-cream and refreshments
to order, won’t it?”
“Fierce,” agreed Ned. “I suppose the best way will be to reckon on, say,
three hundred and order that much stuff. Only, how do you tell how much
three hundred will eat?”
“Why, you can’t! Besides, Nid, three hundred people would only bring in
seventy-five dollars!”
“In admissions, yes; but we’ve got to make them buy things when we get
them in there. If every one spent a dollar inside—”
“But lots of them won’t. Do you think they will, Mae?”
Mae shook her head. “No, I don’t. Lots and lots will just come out of
curiosity and won’t spend a cent. I know, boys, because that’s the way
they act at the fairs here.”
Ned kicked at the turf gloomily. “Gee, that’s fierce!” he muttered.
“Well, we’d ought to get more than three hundred folks,” said Laurie.
“Remember, it’s to be afternoon and evening too. I’ll bet there’ll be
nearer six hundred than three.”
Ned brightened. “That’s so. And six hundred, even if they only averaged
fifty cents apiece, would be three hundred dollars. And I guess if we
can make three hundred, we can dig up the other fifty! Well, we’ve got
to get busy, Laurie. I got them to give me a cut from practice this
afternoon and I’ll have to make the most of my time,” he explained to
the girls.
“Oh! And did they let you off, too, Nod?” asked Polly.
“No, we’re through with baseball,” Laurie answered. “No more till
spring. I’m just fairly broken-hearted!”
“When will you know about helping us, Polly?” Ned asked.
[Illustration: “But don’t you think almanacs make mistakes sometimes?”
asked Polly]
“I’ll ask Mother right away; and you’ll ask, too, won’t you, Mae? Can
you stop in this evening? I do hope it’ll be all right!”
“So do we!” said Ned and Laurie, in a breath. “Rather!”
And the Committee on Arrangements hurried away.
That night the committee met again in Dan Whipple’s room in West Hall
and satisfactory progress was reported all along the line. Ned read a
list of donations from the town merchants, and announced that twelve
young ladies from the high school would be on hand, appropriately
attired, to take charge of the booths. Lew Cooper showed proofs of the
poster that was to be displayed in windows and tacked on posts and
fences, and of the four-inch, double-column advertisement to appear in
the “Messenger.” Dan reported that Mr. Wells, the physical director, had
promised to see that the best six members of the gymnastic team should
exhibit afternoon and evening.
“That means, though,” he said, “that we’ll have to have some kind of a
platform. Better make a note of that, Lew.”
“Platforms cost money,” answered Lew, dubiously. “Maybe we can
borrow—I’ll tell you what! There’s one stored over in the field-house,
one they use to set the dressing-tent on. It’s in two
pieces,—sections,—but I guess it’s big enough. We’ll see if we can’t
get the use of it.”
“Good! Better ask Mr. Wells, Say, Hal, did you see Norris?”
Hal Pringle was Dan’s room-mate, and, while he was usually present at
the meetings, he was careful to keep himself in the background unless
called on for advice. Now he looked up from his book and nodded. “Yes,
it ’a all right. They’ll play for an hour in the afternoon and an hour
at night. I had to promise them eats, though.”
“Of course. Much obliged. Speaking of eats, fellows, what’s been done
about the refreshments?”
“Nothing yet,” answered Ned. “I wanted to talk that over. How many
sandwiches and how much salad will we want? And how many gallons of
ice-cream and—”
“Whoa!” begged Dan. “Blessed if I know! How the dickens are we going to
know how much food will be needed? What’s the rule about it? Or isn’t
there any?”
“Depends on how many will attend the show,” said Lew. “Find that out—”
“How’re we going to find it out, you chump? How many do you suppose we
can count on, Ned?”
“Maybe six hundred,” was the answer. “But if it should rain—”
“There you are! If it rained, we mightn’t get two hundred! I’ll say
that’s a problem. We’d be in a fine fix if we found ourselves with two
or three freezers of ice-cream on our hands and a lot of other truck.
Look here, Tabby might know. Suppose you ask her, Ned. We’ve got to have
enough and not too much.”
“It’ll be all right about the ice-cream,” said Laurie. “The man said we
could return what we didn’t open if we got it back that night so he
could pack it over. But the other things—”
“You talk to Tabby in the morning,” repeated Dan. “She’ll know if any
one does. Now what else? What about the entertainment part of it, Mr.
Chairman of the Committee on Arrangements? What have you got in mind
besides the gymnastics?”
“We thought we might find some one who could sing or dance. But we don’t
know many of the fellows.”
“Bully! There’s Cheesman, Lew. He’s a corker. And Kewpie isn’t so bad.
He sings a funny song mighty well.”
“He couldn’t sing it in the afternoon, though, Dan: he’d be at the
field.”
“That’s so! still, the game ought to be finished by four. We wouldn’t
have the entertainment part until late, would we?”
“About four, I thought,” said Ned, “but Kewpie could come last. I’ll put
him down, anyway.”
“Anything else besides songs?” asked Dan.
“Yes, only-” Ned dropped his voice and glanced at Pringle—“only it’s
got to be kept a secret to make good.”
“Oh, Hal’s all right. He’s a sort of ex-officio member of the committee.
Shoot, Ned!”
CHAPTER XIII—NED GETS INTO THE GAME
Four hectic days followed. To Laurie, since Ned was held for two hours
each afternoon at the football field, fell most of the duties of the
Committee on Arrangements, and he was a very busy youth. He badgered
shopkeepers into parting with goods to be sold at the booths, helped Bob
Starling trim up the old arbor in the garden of the Coventry place, made
frequent trips to the Or stead caterer’s, engaged eight cakes from Miss
Comfort and twelve dozen cream-puffs from the Widow Deane, spent two
hours Wednesday helping Lew and Hal Pringle distribute posters
throughout the village, and attended to a hundred other matters
between-times. Of course, Ned aided when he could, and was helpful with
advice and unfailing in suggestions; but recitations and football
practice didn’t leave him much time, even though he conscientiously
arose a full hour earlier every morning that week, and skimped studying
so much that he got in trouble with three instructors in one day!
Miss Tabitha had proved as helpful as Dan Whipple had predicted. She had
shaken her head at the idea of entertaining six hundred at the fête.
“You mustn’t count on more than half that many,” she said. “I dare say
all the boys will go, and they’ll make ninety. Then, if you get two
hundred of the townsfolk, you’ll be doing very nicely. Don’t decide how
much salad or how many sandwiches you want until Saturday morning. So
much will depend on the weather. Even if you hold the affair indoors,
lots of folks won’t come if it rains. You say you’ve ordered eight cakes
from Martha Comfort and twelve dozen cream-puffs from Mrs. Deane?”
“Yes’m,” said Ned. “We wanted Mrs. Deane to make more, but she didn’t
think she could.”
“Well, that’s a hundred and fourty-four cream-puffs, and—let me
see—one of Miss Comfort’s cakes will cut into sixteen pieces, and eight
times sixteen—”
“A hundred and twenty-eight, ma’am.”
“Well, and a hundred and twenty-eight and a hundred and forty-four—”
“Two hundred and seventy-two.”
“You’re real quick at figures, aren’t you? Seems as if, though, counting
on three hundred, you’d be a little short. I’ll have Aunt Persis make
one of her marble-cakes. That’ll help out, I guess.”
“Yes’m; thanks awfully,” answered Ned.
“Who is going to serve the refreshments?”
“Why—why—” Ned’s face fell. “I guess we hadn’t thought of that!”
“Well, it makes a heap of difference, because you can make a quart of
ice-cream serve ten people or twenty, just as you’ve a mind to. I
usually count on sixteen. Same way with a loaf of cake, and same way
with salad. It’s awfully easy to waste salad when you’re serving it.
Now, if you’d like me to, Ned, I’ll attend to serving everything for
you. You just have the things set down there and I’ll look after them.”
“Oh, Miss Hillman, if you would! Gee, that would be great! It—it’ll be
a lot of trouble, though, ma’am.”
“Well, I guess it won’t be the first trouble I’ve seen,” replied Miss
Tabitha, dryly; “nor it won’t be the last!”
Thursday afternoon Laurie hurried over to the Coventry place as soon as
a two-o’clock recitation was done. Bob was awaiting him at the gate, and
conducted him around to the back of the big square house. Ned stared in
surprise. The tangle of trees and vines and shrubbery had been trimmed
to orderly neatness, the long, unkempt grass had been shorn to a yellow,
but respectable, turf, and the old arbor showed new strips where Thomas,
the Starlings’ man, had been at work on the decrepit frame. Near at hand
lay piles of cedar and hemlock branches.
“Dad got a couple of the men to cut those down near the tunnel and haul
them up here.” Bob explained. “Thomas is going to help us put them up.
He made a peachy job of the garden, didn’t he?”
“You bet!” responded Laurie, heartily. “I wouldn’t have known the place!
I say, Bob, this arbor’s longer than I thought it was.”
“Forty feet, about. Why?”
“I only ordered six tables and a dozen chairs from the caterer,”
answered Laurie, dubiously. “Guess they aren’t enough; but he’s charging
twenty-five cents apiece for them—”
“Twenty-five cents for a table? Isn’t that dirt-cheap?”
“We’re only renting them, you idiot!”
“Oh, I see. Well, six is enough, I guess; you don’t want to crowd them.
Now let’s get busy with the green stuff. I’ll yell down cellar for
Thomas. There’s a ball of twine, and I’ve got two hammers and a lot of
tacks on the side porch. You take your coat off and I’ll—”
“We’ll have to have a step-ladder, Bob!”
“There’s a short ladder right beside you. Be right back.”
Laurie sat down on a wheelbarrow, after removing his coat and folding
back the sleeves of his shirt, and looked around him. The garden was
fairly large—larger in appearance since the clutter of shrubbery along
the sides had been cleared away. Along the School Park edge ran a tall
hedge of lilac bushes. At the back was the high board fence, painted
dark brown, that separated the garden from the Widow Deane’s humble
property. On the other side was a rusty ornamental iron fence, mostly
hidden by vines. Broad walks, in spite of Thomas’s efforts rather
overrun with weeds, surrounded the central plot of ancient turf, and
another ran straight down the middle of the garden, connecting with the
arbor. Wires were to be strung from the trees and across to the arbor,
and Chinese lanterns hung thereon. Laurie, half closing his eyes, sought
to visualize the place as it would appear on Saturday. He did want the
affair to be a success, both financial and artistic, both on account of
the school and—well, for the honor of the Turners! While he was musing,
two things happened simultaneously: Bob and Thomas appeared from the
house, and a familiar voice came to him from the opposite direction.
“Nod!” called the voice. “Nod, will you please come here a moment?”
Laurie’s eyes sought the board fence. Over the top of it appeared the
head and shoulders of Polly. He left the wheelbarrow and hurried through
the arbor and down the walk beyond. Polly’s face indicated distress,
whether mental or physical Laurie couldn’t determine. But Polly’s first
words explained.
“I can’t stay here l-long,” she said. “I—I’m just hanging by my elbows.
I cl-climbed up on a board, and it’s fallen down!”
“I’ll get you a ladder!” cried Laurie, gallantly.
“N-no, never mind. I’m going to drop in a s-second. I just want to ask
you what Brown’s color is. Nettie Blanchard is going to be Brown and—”
“Why, brown, of course!”
“Oh!” There was the sound of desperate scraping against the farther side
of the fence, and Polly’s countenance became fairly convulsed with the
effort of holding herself in sight. “Oh! She said it was pur-pur—”
Polly disappeared. There was a thud from the next yard.
“Purple!” The word floated across to him, muffled but triumphant.
“Are you hurt, Polly?” he called anxiously.
“Not a bit,” was the rueful response, “but I’m afraid the day-lilies
are!” Then she laughed merrily. “Thanks, Nod! I didn’t think Nettie was
right. She loves purple, you see!”
“Does she? Well, say, maybe she can be Williams. We weren’t going to
have Williams, but its color is purple, I think, and if she is going to
be disappointed—”
“She will look very well indeed in brown,” came from the other side in
judicial tones; “and if we begin making changes, half the girls will
want to be something they aren’t. Why, Pearl Fayles begged to be some
girls’ college neither Mae nor I had ever heard of, just so she could
wear lavender and pale lemon!”
“Well, all right,” laughed Laurie. “She’d better stick to Brown—and
brown! Good-by, Polly. I’ll drop in after a while and find out how
things are getting on.”
He turned to find Bob viewing him quizzically from the end of the arbor,
swinging a hammer in each hand. “Of course it’s all right, I dare say,”
he announced, “but I _thought_ you came here to fix up the arbor.
Instead of that I find you talking to girls over the fence!”
“There’s only one girl,” replied Laurie, with dignity, “and we were
talking business.”
“Oh, of course! Sorry I interrupted.”
“You needn’t be, and you didn’t. Quit grinning like a simpleton and give
me a hammer!”
“Right-o! Come on, Thomas! It’s quite all right now!”
An hour later their task was done, and well done, and they viewed it
with approval. To be honest, the major part of the work had been
performed by the faithful Thomas, although it is not to be denied that
both Laurie and Bob toiled conscientiously. Before they were through
approving the result from various angles, Bob’s father joined them. Mr.
Starling was an older edition of Bob—a tall, straight, lean-visaged man
of forty-two or -three, with the complexion of one who had lived an
outdoor life. He had a deep, pleasant voice and a quiet manner not fully
in accord with a pair of keen eyes and a firm mouth.
“I’d call that a good piece of work, boys,” he said, as he joined them.
“And right up to specifications, too. Those paper lanterns come yet,
Bob?”
“No, sir; I haven’t seen them.”
“Lanterns, Mr. Starling?” asked Laurie. “Do you mean Chinese lanterns?
We’ve ordered a lot from the caterer, sir.”
“Tell him you won’t need them, then. I’ve got a hundred coming up from
the city, Turner. They ought to be here, too. Thomas, call up the
express company and ask about them.”
“That’s very kind, sir,” said Laurie, “but you needn’t have done it.
You—you’re doing _everything_!”
“Nonsense! Bob and I want to do our part, of course. Well, this
wilderness certainly looks different, doesn’t it? That reminds me, Bob;
the agent writes me that we may ‘make such improvements to the property
as we desire.’ So, as I consider the absence of that arbor an
improvement, I guess you can pull it down any time you like. I’m going
to have a cup of tea, Turner. Will you join me? I believe there will be
cakes, too.”
Laurie found Ned in rather a low frame of mind when he got back to
Number 16 a half-hour before supper-time. Ned was hunched over a Latin
book and each hand held a firm grip on his hair. At Laurie’s arrival he
merely grunted.
“Where does it pain you most?” asked Laurie, solicitously, subsiding
into a chair with a weary sigh. Ned’s mood was far from flippant. He
rewarded the other with a scowl, and bent his gaze on the book again.
“Want to hear the latest news from the front?” persisted Laurie.
“No, I don’t!” his brother growled. “I’ve had all the news I can stand.
Smug says that if I don’t get this rotten stuff by nine to-night, and
make a perfect showing to-morrow, he will can me!”
“Mr. Cornish said that?” gasped Laurie. “What do you know about that?
Why, I thought he was a gentleman!”
“He’s a—a brute! I can’t learn the old stuff! And I have a hunch that
Mulford means to give me a try in the Loring game Saturday. And if I
don’t get this, Cornish will fix it so I can’t play. He as good as said
so.”
“Didn’t you tell him you’d been busy with the fête and everything?”
“Of course I did. Much he cared! Just made a rotten pun. Said I’d better
keep my own fate in mind. Puns are fearfully low and vulgar!”
“Aren’t they? How much of that have you got?”
“Six pages. I—I’ve sort of neglected it the last two days. Some fellows
can fake through, but I don’t have any luck. He’s always picking on me.”
Laurie whistled expressively. “Six pages! Well, never say die, partner.
We’ll get down to supper early, and that’ll give us two hours before
nine.”
“Us?” questioned Ned, hopefully.
“Sure. I’ll give you a hand. As the well-known proverb so wisely
remarks, two heads are the shortest way home.”
Ned grinned, and stopped tormenting his hair. “Honest? That’s mighty
decent, Laurie. I’ll do as much for you some day.”
“Hope you won’t have to. Wash your dirty face and let’s beat it!”
At half-past nine a more cheerful and much relieved Ned returned from
the hall master’s study. “All right,” he announced to an anxious Laurie.
“He was rather decent, too. Said he guessed that, in view of the
manifold affairs engaging my attention just now,—you know the crazy way
he talks,—he wouldn’t demand too much from me. Reckon he means to let
me down easy to-morrow, eh?”
“Maybe, partner, and maybe not. Take my advice and, in the words of the
Scouts, be prepared!”
Friday was a hectic day for Laurie and all others concerned with the
fête. Difficulties that had remained in ambush all the week sprang out
and confronted them at the last moment. Half a dozen things had been
forgotten, and every member of the committee sought to exonerate
himself. Tempers were short and the meeting in Dan Whipple’s room at
nine o’clock was far from harmonious. All went to bed that night firmly
convinced that the affair was doomed to be a flat failure. And, to add
to that conviction, the night sky was overcast and an unsympathetic
easterly wind was blowing. Ned, conscious of having imposed too many
duties on Laurie, was grouchy and silent; and Laurie, convinced that he
had been made a “goat” of, and that Ned was secretly blaming him for
mistakes and omissions that were no fault of his, retired in high
dudgeon.
And yet, the morning dawned fair and warm, with an almost cloudless blue
sky over the world, and life looked very different indeed. Ned arose
whistling, and Laurie somehow knew that everything would be all right.
Fortunately, they had but two recitations on Saturday, and in
consequence there remained to them three whole hours before dinner to
devote to the affairs of the entertainment. They were busy hours, you
may be sure. If Ned hurried downtown once, he hurried there half a dozen
times; while Laurie, seated beside the driver of a rickety
express-wagon, rounded up all kinds of things, from the platform at the
field-house to the cakes at Miss Comfort’s. Dinner brought a respite;
but as soon as it was over, Laurie was back on the job, while Ned joined
the football-players.
Of course, what the Hillman’s School football team should have done that
afternoon was to score a decisive victory over the visiting eleven. What
it did do was to get thoroughly worsted. Loring was something of a
surprise, with a heavier line and a faster bunch of backs than Hillman’s
had expected. And Loring knew a lot of football, and proved the fact
early in the game. At half-past two, by which time the second period was
half over, the result was a foregone conclusion. Loring had scored two
touch-downs and as many goals therefrom, and the Blue had never once
threatened the adversary’s last white line. Gains through the opponent
were infrequent and short, even Pope, who could generally be depended on
to tear off a few yards when the worst came to the worst, failing
dismally.
In mid-field, Mason and Slavin made some stirring advances around the
Loring wings, and there were several successful forward passes to the
home team’s credit; but, once past Loring’s thirty-yard line, Hillman’s
seemed powerless. The third quarter went scoreless, and in the fourth,
realizing doubtless that defeat was certain, Coach Mulford used his
substitutes lavishly. Ned made his first appearance on the big team in
that period, taking Mason’s place for some eight of the fifteen minutes.
He did neither better nor worse than the other second- and third-string
fellows, perhaps—although, when Pope was taken out and Deering
substituted at full-back, he did his share of the punting and performed
very creditably. But that fourth period gave Loring an opportunity to
add to her score, and she seized it. Even with several substitutes in
her own line-up, she was still far better than Hillman’s, and a goal
from the field and, in the last few moments of the game, a third
touch-down, resulted.
The Blue fought desperately and gamely with her back to the wall, in an
effort to stave off that last score; but eventually Holmes, who had
taken Kewpie’s place at center, weakened, and the Loring back piled
through. The final score was 23 to 0, and what two hours before had been
looked on as a victory or, at the worst, a tie, had become a cataclysm!
Humiliated, if not disgraced, the home-team players trailed to the
field-house with hanging heads, averting their eyes from the sight of
Loring’s triumphal march around the gridiron.
CHAPTER XIV—THE FETE
Behold Fairyland!
Well, at least an excellent imitation of what Fairyland must look like.
Overhead, a clear, star-sprinkled sky; below, scores of gaily-hued
lanterns shedding their soft glow over a charming scene. Through the
side gate, please, on School Park. Twenty-five cents to the boy on duty
there, and you are inside, with the manifold attractions awaiting you.
On three sides of the transformed garden are the college booths, each
decked with bunting and flags of appropriate colors, and each presided
over by a patriotically attired young lady who will gladly, nay,
eagerly, sell you almost anything from a cake of soap (“Donated by the
Town Square Pharmacy, H. J. Congreve, Prop’r.”) to a knitted sweater or
a gingham house-dress (“Compliments of The New York Store, High Class
Dry Goods”). Near at hand, Yale is represented by Miss Polly Deane,
capped and aproned in blue, her eyes sparkling and her voice sweetly
insistent: “Won’t you buy something, please, sir? Post-cards, two for
five! These pictures are only fifty cents, all beautifully framed and
ready for hanging! Can I sell you something, ma’am?”
Beyond, gay with orange and black, is the Princeton booth; and still
beyond, Dartmouth and Columbia and California; and then, a blur of
brilliant crimson through the leafage, Harvard. And so on all around the
garden, with merry voices sounding above the chatter of the throng that
moves here and there. Down the center of Fairyland runs a leafy tunnel
from within which blue and red and yellow and green rays twinkle. There,
under the hanging lanterns, little tables and chairs are dotted on the
gravel, and half a dozen aproned youths are busy bearing, not always
without mishap, plates of salad and rolls and dishes of ice-cream and
cake. Close to the back of the house is a platform illumined by a row of
electric lights, the one glaring spot in the area of soft radiance.
“How’s it going?” asked a heavily-built youth of a slimmer one who had
paused at the entrance to the arbor.
“Hello, Kewpie! Oh, bully, so far. We took in eighty-four dollars this
afternoon, and we’ll do at least twice as well to-night. They’re still
coming. Have you seen Whipple anywhere?”
“Yes, a minute ago, down at the Pennsylvania booth. She’s a mighty
pretty girl, too, Nod. I bought a pocket-knife of her for a quarter, and
got stung; but I don’t mind. I’m going back to get another pretty soon.
When do I have to sing again?”
“You follow Wilson’s clog-dance. We’re switching you and Cheesman,
Kewpie. His stuff is corking, but it’s pretty high-brow, and we thought
you’d better bring up the end and make the audience feel cheerful.”
“All right; but it won’t feel very cheerful if those orchestra guys
don’t do better than they did this afternoon. They were four or five
notes behind me once! Nid said you had a new stunt this
evening—something you left out this afternoon.”
“Yes; we couldn’t work it in daylight very well. It ought to go fine
to-night, though.”
“What is it?”
“You wait and see. I’ve got to find Whipple. Say, if you see Ned, tell
him I’ll be at the platform in five minutes and want him to meet me
there. Everybody keeps getting lost here!”
On the way past the arbor, Laurie ran into George Watson, returning
across lots balancing a couple of plates in one hand and holding a large
slab of cake in the other, from which he nibbled as he went. “Hello!” he
said, none too distinctly. “I’ve been looking for you.”
“Wanted to bring me refreshments, I suppose.”
George looked at the empty plates, laughed, and shook his head. “Not
exactly. I’ve been feeding Cornell. Somebody ought to take eats to those
girls, Nod; they’re starving!”
“All right; you do it.”
“What do you think I am? A millionaire? I bought Mae a salad and an
ice-cream, and I’m about broke. Lend me a half, will you? Thanks. Want
an ice-cream? I’ll treat.”
“No, thanks. Have you seen Dan Whipple?”
“Sure! He’s over at the Pennsylvania booth, buying it out! Say,
everything’s going great, isn’t it? Couldn’t have had a finer evening,
either, what? Well, see you later. I’m hungry!” And George continued his
way to the house, where Miss Tabitha, surrounded by willing and hungry
helpers, presided sternly, but most capably, over the refreshments.
At eight o’clock the boy on duty at the entrance estimated the
attendance as close to two hundred, which, added to the eighty-six paid
admissions before supper, brought the total close to the first estimate
of three hundred. It is safe to say that every Hillman’s boy attended
the fête either in the afternoon or evening, and that most of the
faculty came and brought Mrs. Faculty—when there was a Mrs. Faculty.
Doctor Hillman was spied by Laurie purchasing a particularly useless and
unlovely article in burnt wood from the auburn-haired Miss Hatch. Every
one seemed to be having a good time, and the only fly in the ointment of
the committee was the likelihood that the refreshments would be
exhausted far too soon.
The Weather Man had kindly provided an evening of exceptional warmth,
with scarcely enough breeze to sway the paper lanterns that glowed from
end to end of the old garden, an evening so warm that ice-cream was more
in demand than sandwiches or salad; and fortunately so, since ice-cream
was the one article of refreshment that could be and was replenished.
If, said Ned, folks would stick to ice-cream and go light on the other
refreshments, they might get through. To which Laurie agreed, and Ned
hied him to the telephone and ordered another freezer sent up.
At a few minutes after eight the Banjo and Mandolin Club took possession
of the chairs behind the platform and dashed into a military march.
Following that, six picked members of the Gymnastic Club did some very
clever work, and Cheesman, a tall and rather soulful-looking upper
middler, sang two ballads very well indeed, and then, as an encore,
quite took the joy out of life with “Suwanee River”! Little Miss
Comfort, present through the courtesy of the Committee on Arrangements,
sniffled quite audibly, but was heard to declare that “it was just too
sweet for anything!” A rather embarrassed junior attempted some card
tricks that didn’t go very well, and then Wilson, garbed more or less in
the character of an Irish gentleman returning from Donnybrook Fair, and
swinging a shillaly, did some jig-dancing that was really clever and won
much applause.
There was a brief unofficial intermission while three anxious committee
members made search for Kewpie Proudtree. He was presently discovered
consuming his fourth plate of ice-cream in the seclusion of the side
porch, and was haled away, protesting, to the platform. In spite of what
may seem an over-indulgence in refreshment, Kewpie was in excellent
voice and a jovial mood, and sang four rollicking songs in a manner that
captured his audience. In fact, long after Kewpie had vanished from the
public gaze and returned to his ice-cream, the audience still demanded
more.
Its attention was eventually captured, however, by Dan Whipple, who
announced importantly that it gave him much pleasure to say that, at a
great expense, the committee had secured as an added attraction the
world-famed Signor Duodelli, who, with their kind permission, would
exhibit for their pleasure and astoundment his miraculous act known as
the Vanishing Man, as performed before the crowned heads of Europe, to
the bewilderment and applause of all beholders. “Ladies and gentlemen,
Signor Duodelli!”
The Signor had a noticeable likeness to Lew Cooper, in spite of his
gorgeous mustache and flowing robe of red and purple cheese-cloth. Yet
it might not have been Lew, for his manner was extremely foreign and his
gestures and the few words he used in directing the arranging of his
“properties” were unmistakably Latin. The properties consisted of a
kitchen chair, a threefold screen covered with black baize, and a coil
of rope. There was also in evidence a short wand, but the Signor held
that in his hand, waving it around most eloquently. The audience laughed
and applauded and waited patiently until the chair had been placed
exactly to the Signor’s liking, close to the back of the platform, and
the screen beside it. Previously several of the lights had been put out,
and those that remained threw their glare on the front of the stage,
leaving the back, while discernible, less in evidence.
“Now,” announced the Signor, narrowly escaping from falling off the
platform as he tripped over his robe, “I aska da some one coma up and
giva da help. Any one I aska. You, Signor, maybe, eh?” The magician
pointed his wand at Mr. Cornish, in the front of the clustered audience;
but the gentleman laughingly declined. The Signor seemed disappointed.
“No-o-o? You no geta da hurt. Some one else, eh?” He looked invitingly
around, and a small junior, urged by his companions, struggled to the
front. Unfortunately for his ambitions to pose in the lime-light, the
Signor’s glance had moved to another quarter, and, ere the junior could
get his attention, a volunteer appeared from the semi-obscurity of the
kitchen porch. He was peculiarly attired, wearing a simple white garment
having a strong resemblance to the old-fashioned night-shirt, that
covered him completely from neck to ankles. He was bareheaded, revealing
the fact that his locks were red-brown in hue.
“Ah!” exclaimed the Signor, delightedly. “You will helpa me, _si_? Right
thisa way, Signor. I thanka you!”
“That’s one of the Turner fellows,” muttered a boy, while the small
junior and his companions called “Fake!” loudly. However, the
good-natured laughter of the audience drowned the accusation, and some
two hundred pairs of eyes watched amusedly and expectantly while, with
the assistance of two other volunteers, the youth in the white robe was
tied securely to the chair.
“Maka him tight,” directed the Signor, enthusiastically, waving his
wand. “Pulla da knot. Ha, thata da way! Good! Signors, I thanka you!”
The two who had tied the victim to the chair retired from the platform.
The Signor seized the screen and opened it wide and turned it around and
closed it and turned it again.
“You seea?” he demanded. “There is nothing that deceive! Now, then, I
placea da screen so!” He folded it around the boy and the chair, leaving
only the side away from the audience uncovered. He drew away the width
of the platform, and, “Music, ifa you please,” he requested. The
orchestra, whose members had moved their chairs to one side, struck up a
merry tune, and the Signor, folding his arms, bent a rapt gaze on the
blank, impenetrable blackness of the screen. A brief moment passed. Then
the Signor bade the music cease, took a step forward, and pointed to the
screen.
“Away!” he cried, and swung his arm in a half-circle, his body following
with a weird flaring of his brilliant robes until, with outstretched
finger, he faced the audience. “Ha! He come! Thisa way, Signor! Comea
quick!”
As one man the audience turned and followed the pointing finger. Through
the deserted arbor came a boy in a white garment. He pushed his way
through the throng and jumped to the stage. As he did so, the Signor
whisked aside the screen. There was the chair empty, and there was the
rope dangling from it, twisted and knotted.
A moment of surprised silence gave place to hearty applause.
Theoretically it might have been possible for the boy in the chair to
vanish from behind the screen, reach the farther end of the garden, and
run back into sight; but actually, as the audience realized on second
thought, it couldn’t possibly have been done in the few seconds, surely
not more than ten, that had elapsed between the placing of the screen
and the appearance of the boy behind them. And then, how had he got
himself free from the rope? An audience likes to be puzzled, and this
one surely was. The garden hummed with conjecture and discussion. There
were some there who could have explained the seeming phenomenon, but
they held their counsel.
Meanwhile, on the platform the Signor was modestly bowing alternately to
the audience and to his subject, the latter apparently no worse for his
magic transposition. And the orchestra again broke into its interrupted
melody. The applause became insistent, but Signor Duodelli, perhaps
because his contract with the committee called for no further evidence
of his powers, only bowed and bowed and at last disappeared into the
obscurity of the shadows. Whereupon the Banjo and Mandolin Club moved
into the house, and presently the strains of a one-step summoned the
dancers to the big drawing-room.
Laurie, unconsciously rubbing a wrist, smiled as he listened to the
comments of the dissolving audience. “Well, but there’s no getting
around the fact that it was the same boy,” declared a pompous little
gentleman to his companion. “Same hair and eyes and everything! Couldn’t
be two boys as much alike, eh? Not possibly! Very clever!”
Laurie chuckled as he made his way to Polly’s booth. That young lady
looked a little tired, and, by the same token, so did the Yale booth!
Only a bare dozen framed pictures and a small number of post-cards
remained of her stock. “Don’t you think I’ve done awfully well?” asked
Polly, a trifle pathetically. She seemed to need praise, and Laurie
supplied it.
“Corking, Polly,” he assured her. “I guess you’ve sold more than any of
the others, haven’t you?”
“N-no, I guess some of the others have done better, Nod; but I think
they had more attractive articles, don’t you? Anyhow, I’ve taken in
twelve dollars and thirty cents since supper, and I made four dollars
and eighty-five cents this afternoon; only I must have dropped a dime
somewhere, for I’m ten cents short. Or perhaps someone didn’t give me
the right amount.”
“Why, that’s seventeen dollars!” exclaimed Laurie. “I didn’t think you
had anywhere near seventeen dollars’ worth of things here, Polly!”
“Oh, I didn’t! Not nearly! Why, if I’d sold things at the prices marked
on them, Nod, I wouldn’t have had more than half as much! But lots of
folks _wanted_ to pay more, and I let them. Mr. Conklin, the jeweler,
bought a picture, one of the funny landscapes with the frames that
didn’t fit at the corners, and he said it was ridiculous to sell it for
a quarter, and he gave me a dollar for it. Then he held the picture up
and just laughed and laughed at it! I guess he just wanted to spend his
money, don’t you? You know, Ned said we were to get as much as we could
for things, so I usually added ten cents to the price that was marked on
them—sometimes more, if a person looked extravagant. One lady came back
and said she’d paid twenty-five cents for a picture and it was marked
fifteen on the back. I said I was sorry she was dissatisfied and I’d be
very glad to buy it back from her for twenty.”
Laurie laughed. “What did she say to that?” he asked.
“She said if I wanted it bad enough to pay twenty cents for it she
guessed it was worth twenty-five, and went off and didn’t come back.”
Polly laughed and then sighed. “I’m awfully tired. Doesn’t that music
sound lovely? Do you dance?”
Laurie shook his head. “No; but, say, if you want to go in there, I’ll
watch the booth for you.”
Polly hesitated. “It’s funny you don’t,” she said. “Don’t you like it?”
It was Laurie’s turn to hesitate. “No, not much. I never have danced.
It—it seems sort of silly.” He looked at Polly doubtfully. Although he
wouldn’t have acknowledged it, he was more than half sorry that dancing
was not included among his accomplishments.
“It isn’t silly at all,” asserted Polly, almost indignantly. “You ought
to learn. Mae could teach you to one-step in no time at all!”
“I guess that’s about the way I’d do it,” answered Laurie, sadly—“in no
time at all! Don’t you—couldn’t _you_ teach a fellow?”
“I don’t believe so. I never tried to teach any one. Besides, Mae dances
lots better than I do. She put the things she had left on Grace
Boswell’s booth and went inside the minute the music started. She wanted
me to come, but I thought I shouldn’t,” added Polly, virtuously.
“You go ahead now,” urged Laurie. “I’ll stay here till you come back. It
isn’t fair for you girls to miss the dancing. Besides, I guess there
won’t be much more sold now. Folks have begun to go, some of them, and
most of the others are inside.”
Polly looked toward the house. Through the big wide-open windows the
lilting music of a waltz floated out. The Banjo and Mandolin Club was
really doing very well to-night. Polly sighed once and looked wistful.
Then she shook her head. “Thanks, Nod,” she said, “but I guess I’ll stay
here. Some one _might_ come.”
“What do you care? You don’t own ’em! Anyway, I guess I could sell a
post-card if I had to!”
“You’d have trouble selling any of t
Showing first 200,000 characters. Full text: gutenberg.org/ebooks/37209