Captain of the Crew
by Ralph Henry Barbour · English · Gutenberg #48745 · 397,767 chars · public domain (US)
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Title: Captain of the Crew
Author: Ralph Henry Barbour
Illustrator: C. M. Relyea
Release date: April 20, 2015 [eBook #48745]
Most recently updated: October 24, 2024
Language: English
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*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK CAPTAIN OF THE CREW ***
CAPTAIN OF THE CREW
BY RALPH HENRY BARBOUR.
Each Illustrated, 12mo, Cloth, $1.50.
For Yardley.
Finkler’s Field. ($1.25.)
Winning His “Y.”
The New Boy at Hilltop.
Double Play.
Forward Pass!
The Spirit of the School.
Four in Camp.
Four Afoot.
Four Afloat.
The Arrival of Jimpson.
Behind the Line.
Captain of the Crew.
For the Honor of the School.
The Half-Back.
On Your Mark.
Weatherby’s Inning.
D. APPLETON & COMPANY, NEW YORK.
[Illustration: “Your promise!” he cried. “Quick!”]
CAPTAIN OF THE CREW
By
RALPH HENRY BARBOUR
Author of For the Honor of the School
and The Half-Back
_Illustrated by C. M. Relyea_
[Illustration]
NEW YORK AND LONDON
D. APPLETON AND COMPANY
1912
Copyright, 1901,
By D. APPLETON AND COMPANY.
INTRODUCTION
In this, as in the two preceding volumes of the series--The Half-Back
and For the Honor of the School--an attempt is made to show that
athletics rightly indulged in is beneficial to the average boy and is
an aid rather than a detriment to study. In it, too, as in the previous
books, a plea is made for honesty and simplicity in sports. There is
a tendency in this country to-day to give too great an importance to
athletics--to take it much too seriously--and it is this tendency that
should be guarded against, especially among school and college youths.
When athletics ceases to be a pleasure and becomes a pursuit it should
no longer have a place in school or college life.
Many inquiries have been received as to whether Hillton Academy really
exists. It doesn’t. It is, instead, a composite of several schools
that the author knows of, and is not unlike any one of a half dozen
institutions which are yearly turning out hundreds of honest, manly
American boys, stronger, sturdier, and more self-reliant for just such
trials and struggles as in the present volume fall to the lot of Dick
Hope.
To those readers who have followed the varying fortunes of Joel March,
Outfield West, Wayne Gordon, and their companions, this book is
gratefully dedicated by
THE AUTHOR.
PHILADELPHIA, _June 19, 1901_.
CONTENTS
CHAPTER PAGE
I.--THE BOY ON THE BOX 1
II.--INTRODUCING DICK HOPE 11
III.--’IS ’IGHNESS 20
IV.--IN THE GYM 31
V.--THE INDOOR MEETING 42
VI.--THE RELAY RACE 53
VII.--TREVOR’S VICTORY 62
VIII.--CANDIDATES FOR THE CREW 70
IX.--THE HOCKEY MATCH 77
X.--BUYING AN ICE-YACHT 92
XI.--ADVENTURES OF A BULL PUP 106
XII.--MUGGINS IS EXPELLED 115
XIII.--THE VOYAGE OF THE SLEET 124
XIV.--DICK TELLS HIS STORY 133
XV.--IN THE ROWING-ROOM 142
XVI.--A DECLARATION OF WAR 155
XVII.--IN THE BOAT 166
XVIII.--DICK SURRENDERS 179
XIX.--DEFIES THE LAW 191
XX.--AND EXTORTS A PROMISE 204
XXI.--A DISAPPOINTING HERO 214
XXII.--TAYLOR ACCEPTS DEFEAT 224
XXIII.--PROSPECTS OF VICTORY 231
XXIV.--STEWART’S REVENGE 238
XXV.--“ARE YOU READY? GO!” 248
XXVI.--AT THE MILE 257
XXVII.--AT THE FINISH 265
XXVIII.--TREVOR IS COMFORTED 273
LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS
FACING
PAGE
“Your promise!” he cried. “Quick!” _Frontispiece_
Plan of Hillton, N. Y. 24
On the last lap. 50
A winner by ten yards. 90
“Stand by the ship!” he muttered. 132
A declaration of war. 156
The only way by which he could aid. 262
CAPTAIN OF THE CREW
CHAPTER I
THE BOY ON THE BOX
“Hillton! Hillton!”
The brakeman winked solemnly at the group of boys in the end seats,
withdrew his head, slammed the door and crossed the swaying platforms
to make a similar announcement to the occupants of the car ahead. From
the left side of the train passengers caught a glimpse of a broad
expanse of meadow upon which tiny flecks of red flared dully in the
winter sunshine; of a distant grand stand, bleak and desolate, against
whose northern shoulder a drift of snow snuggled as though seeking
protection from its enemy the sun; of two pairs of goal-posts gravely
watching each other from opposite ends of a long field; of a bit of
country road, a slowly rising hill, a little army of leafless elms,
and, last of all, crowning a promontory below which the frozen Hudson
sparkled, a group of old red brick buildings, elbowing each other
with friendly rivalry in an endeavor to gain the post of honor and to
be first seen of the outside world that traveled by train. That was
Hillton Academy.
There was a long warning shriek from the engine, echoed back by the
wooded slope of Mount Adam; a momentary reverberating roar as the train
crossed the little viaduct; the whistle of air brakes; and then, as the
train came to a stop, a babel of boys’ voices. Some twenty youths of
assorted ages and sizes, laden with every description of luggage, from
golf bags and valises down to boxes of figs and caramels purchased from
the train-boy and still uneaten, pushed and scrambled their way to the
station platform. The last trunk was slid from the baggage car, and the
conductor, portly and jovial, sang “All aboard!” and waved a smiling
good-by to the boys.
“Good-by, Pop! See you later!” “Don’t forget that anti-fat, Pop!” And
then, when the train had gained speed, a slim junior danced along the
platform waving a bit of pasteboard exultingly under the conductor’s
nose and just out of his reach: “Hey, Pop! You didn’t get my ticket!
Stop the train! Stop the train!” An old joke this, that never failed of
applause. The conductor shook his fist in simulated wrath, and the next
instant, with a farewell shriek of the whistle, the train was lost to
sight.
Beside the platform waited the coach, from the box of which “Old Joe,”
the driver, smiled a toothless welcome. Each year held three red-letter
days for “Old Joe,” namely, the days preceding the commencement of the
three school terms, when the students, refreshed by recess or vacation,
returned in merry troops to Hillton--noisy, mischievous, vexing, but
ever admirable to the old stage-driver--and taxed the capacity of the
coach to the utmost, and “Old Joe’s” patience to the limit. This was
the first of the red-letter days of the present year, which was as yet
but forty-eight hours old, and all day long the boys who had been so
fortunate as to return to their homes for the Christmas recess had been
piling from the trains to the stage and from the stage to the steps
of Academy Building. And “Old Joe,” who loved the excitement of it
all, and worshiped everything, animate or inanimate, that belonged to
Hillton, was in his glory.
“Now, then, you young terrors, get aboard here. Can’t wait all
afternoon for you. This ain’t no ’commodating train, and----”
“Hello, Joe, old chap; how’s your appetite?” “Still able to sit up and
take your meals, Joe?” “Say, fellows, Old Joe’s looking younger every
day.” “Give me a hand up, Joe, and I’ll show you how to drive those old
plugs of yours.” “Please, Joe, you said I could sit on the box with you
this trip, don’t you remember?”
“Have to be next time, youngster; seat’s full a’ready. How do, Mister
Hope? Scramble out o’ here, sir, an’ give Mister Hope your seat. Oh, is
that you, Mister Nesbitt? Well----”
“No, I’ll sit back here,” answered the boy addressed as Hope. “I can
jump off quicker when we upset.”
“Hark to that,” growled the driver in pretended anger; “an’ me
forty-two years on this road an’ never no accident yet. All aboard
there! No, ye don’t, sir; no more room atop. Trunks’ll go up next trip,
sir. All right now. _Tlk! Get ap!_”
The two stout grays, known popularly as “Spring Halt” and “Spavin,”
settled into their collars, and the big stage, swaying comfortably on
its leather springs, lumbered around the corner into Station Road.
From the interior of the coach, where twelve youths had managed to
pack themselves into a space designed to hold but nine, floated out a
wild medley of shouts and laughter. On top, two boys had secured the
much-coveted places beside the driver, while on the seat behind three
others were perched. When the little stone station had been left the
boy who occupied the other end of the driver’s seat, and whom “Old Joe”
had called “Mister Nesbitt,” leaned across the intervening youth and
addressed the driver:
“Now, Joe, let’s have the lines, old chap, and I’ll show you a bit of
fancy driving that’ll open your eyes. Come now, like a nice old Joe.”
“Now, don’t be askin’ for the reins, Mister Nesbitt, sir. You know it’s
agin the rules for the boys to drive.”
“What! Oh, rot, Joe! I never heard of such a rule. Did you, Williams?”
“Never,” replied the third occupant of the box. “Joe dreamed it.”
“Of course you did, Joe. Come on, now; just let me have them to the
corner there. Don’t be a duffer, man. Why, I can drive a pair bang up.”
“Old Joe” cast a deeply suspicious glance at the youth--and was lost.
Trevor Nesbitt assumed a look of angelic innocence and sweetness and
pleaded so eloquently with his blue eyes that the driver grudgingly
relinquished the lines.
“Mind ye now, Mister Nesbitt, just to the corner you said.”
“Meaning around it, Joe, of course,” replied Nesbitt as he adjusted
the lines knowingly between his gloved fingers. “Come, Spavin, cheer
up, old laddie!” Williams, who had been holding the long-lashed whip,
now handed it to Nesbitt, who sent the lash swirling over his head,
and with a quick movement snapped it loudly a few inches from Spavin’s
head. The result was instantaneous. The off horse snorted loudly and
leaped forward, and the other followed suit. “Old Joe” snatched at the
reins, but Nesbitt held them out of reach.
“Don’t whip ’em, sir,” cried the old man, “please don’t whip ’em; they
ain’t used to it, sir.” Nesbitt laughed gaily.
“Don’t you worry, Joe, I’ll not hurt them. But we can’t put on side,
old chap, unless we just touch them up a bit.”
_Crack_ went the long lash again.
For several years the grays had traveled the road from station to
school and thence to the Eagle Tavern without other persuasion than
a cheery chirp or a sharp whistle from “Old Joe,” or, upon rare
occasions, a half-hearted snap of the whip in no startling proximity
to their ears. To-day there was plainly something wrong, and so, after
a moment of bewildered consideration, they broke into a long ungainly
gallop, to the joy of the boy with the reins and to the terror of “Old
Joe.”
“By Jove, Williams, this is something like, eh?” Nesbitt sat up
straight on the seat, tightened the lines and grinned delightedly at
his companion. “Old Joe” was pleading excitedly for the whip.
“Please, sir, give me the whip now. I’m afeared for you to have it. You
might hit ’em, sir, accidental, an’ there’s no telling what they’d do.
Mister Williams, sir, just you hand it to me. _Stop him!_” But he had
spoken too late. Nesbitt brought the lash down smartly on the broad
back of the off horse, and the gallop changed to a plunging run, the
coach swaying awkwardly from side to side. “Old Joe” reached forward
desperately to wrest the lines from the boy, but Williams interfered.
“Hands off, Joe,” cried Nesbitt, “or you’ll have us over. Keep him
quiet, Williams.”
From inside the stage came a babel of shouts, the exclamations of alarm
half drowned by the noise of the beating hoofs and the protesting
creaks of the leather springs. The horses with heads down, frightened
at length by the unwonted use of the whip, galloped madly. Nesbitt,
smiling and cool, sat straight and handled the lines with skill, which
at any other time would have won loud commendation from “Old Joe.” But
just at present that worthy was too terrorized to appreciate aught
but the fact that the grays were apparently running away. He had a
frightful vision of an overturned coach, of mangled bodies, and of
everlasting disgrace. Yet he recognized the fact that to take the lines
away from Nesbitt by force, even had such a thing been possible, would
be the surest way to bring about the very catastrophe he dreaded. And
then he glanced ahead down the frozen road and saw the sharp turn but a
short distance away.
The three youths on the seat behind had been watching affairs at first
with amusement and now with apprehension. The boy in the center frowned
and turned to one of his companions.
“Who is that chap?” he asked in a low voice.
“What! don’t you know ‘’Is ’Ighness’?”
“‘His Highness’? No, I don’t. Who is he; one of our class?”
“No; he’s an upper middle chap; Trevor Nesbitt’s his real name. The
fellows call him ‘’Is ’Ighness’ because he’s English. He’s a good sort,
all right, but I wish he’d let driving alone.”
“So do I,” responded the boy at the other end of the seat, “but”--a
note of admiration creeping into his dubious tones--“he knows how, all
right!”
“But, I say, Hope,” cried the previous speaker, “look there; we’ve
got to go around that corner! Let’s say our prayers.” Hope’s brows
contracted as he glanced ahead; then he slid from the seat, rested
himself on his knee, clinging tightly the while, and leaned over the
back of the seat ahead.
“Look here, can you get them around that turn?”
“Who’s that, Williams?” asked Nesbitt without looking around.
“Dick Hope; he wants to know----”
“Tell him to shut up and sit down, Williams,” interrupted Nesbitt
calmly. Hope flushed angrily, but said no more, crouching in his place
between the seats with an idea of lending a hand in case of disaster,
although in just what way he could be of use was far from clear.
Nesbitt raised to his feet, propping himself firmly, the reins tight
wrapped about his hands.
“Hold tight all,” he warned, “and bear to the right!”
With the turn but a few yards away he brought his weight to bear on
the lines, swaying from side to side with the lurching coach, settling
farther and farther back as the horses lowered their heads to the
command of the tugging bits. Hope thought of “Old Joe” at that moment,
and glanced across at him. The stage-driver was silent now, his cheeks
white, his face drawn. Williams, too, was pale, and his rigid attitude
told more plainly than words that the fun had ceased for him. Nesbitt
alone of the three occupants of the box appeared at ease. Hope could
see the warm color playing on his cheek, and----
“Easy, boys, easy!” Nesbitt called slowly, soothingly to the horses,
and then-- Well, Hope was clutching desperately at the boards in the
grating; he saw the backs of the straining animals turn at an angle to
the stage, heard the great wheels _slur-r-r_ across the frozen ground,
felt the body of the coach sway far to the left, as though it were on
its way across the fence at that side, and opened his eyes again to
find a straight road ahead of them, and to see Nesbitt settle himself
into his seat once more. “Old Joe” muttered an exclamation of relief.
Hope again leaned across Nesbitt’s shoulder.
“I think you’ve shown off enough for to-day,” he said. “Now pull those
horses down--if you can.”
Nesbitt glanced back into the other’s face, an angry light in his blue
eyes.
“Will you kindly attend to your own affairs?” he asked with suspicious
sweetness. Hope smiled in spite of his anger.
“If you don’t think it’s my affair,” he replied, “maybe you’ll
acknowledge that the gentlemen ahead have something to say about it.”
Nesbitt looked up the road and whistled.
“Just my bally luck!” he murmured. “Professors!” With straining arms he
bore back on the lines. Little by little the horses slackened speed,
and at last dropped into a trot, but not before the coach had swept by
two very serious-faced Hillton professors out for a walk, whose sharp
glances presaged trouble. Nesbitt handed over the lines and whip to
“Old Joe.”
“My luck again,” he sighed.
“An’ serves you right,” grunted the driver.
Hope crawled into his seat again. His companions were busy explaining
the course of events to the inhabitants of the interior of the coach,
or as many of them as could get their heads out the doors, and ere
the latter had run out of questions the stage turned into the academy
grounds and crawled sedately up to the steps of Academy Building.
Hope leaped from the coach and hurried off to his room, while the other
boys, laughing and joking, clustered about Nesbitt. “Wheels won’t do a
thing to you,” one lad assured him with a grin.
“Well, don’t let it trouble you, Tommy,” he answered gaily. “But, I
say, Williams, who was that meddlesome chap on the back seat?”
It was Williams’s turn to grin.
“The fellow you told to shut up, you mean?” Nesbitt nodded.
“Oh, no one much; just Dick Hope, captain of the crew.”
CHAPTER II
INTRODUCING DICK HOPE
The sun was almost out of sight as Dick Hope crossed the yard toward
Masters Hall, and the shadows of the buildings, stretching far over the
ground, seemed to harbor many little gusts of icy wind, and looked dark
and dismal in contrast with the broad expanse of golden, sun-bathed
marsh across the river. Dick pulled his coat closer about him, ran up
the old, worn granite steps of the dormitory, and gained the hallway
with a sense of comfort and homecoming.
Securing his key from the matron’s room, he leaped up the first flight
of narrow stairs and, half-way down the corridor, unlocked a dingy
door which bore a big black figure 16, and, below it, a card with the
inscription “Richard Fowler Hope.” The room was filled with the mellow
light of the setting sun, and here and there the rays were caught--by
the glass doors of the bookcase, by the metal top of the inkstand,
or, less sharply, by the silver and pewter mugs ranged along the
mantel--and were thrown back in golden blurs that dazzled the eyes.
Dick laid aside his coat and cap, took off his gloves, and thrusting
his hands into his pocket, surveyed the apartment smilingly. It was
awfully jolly to get back, he thought happily, as his gaze took in
the shabby, comfortable furnishings and the hundred and one objects
about the room so intimately connected with three and a half years
of pleasant school life. An array of worn and soberly bound books
lined an end of the leather-covered study table, and he took one up
and fluttered its pages between his fingers; it was a good deal like
shaking hands with an old friend. With the volume still in his clasp
he moved to the mantel and examined the knickknacks thereon, the cups
and photographs and little china things, all cheap enough viewed from a
money standpoint, yet to Dick priceless from long possession. He felt
a momentary heart-flutter as his eyes fell on one pewter mug ornately
engraved with his name.
As he looked the mantel and wall faded from sight, and he saw a stretch
of cinder track, pecked by the spikes of runners’ shoes; at a little
distance a thin white tape. He saw himself, head back, eyes staring,
struggling desperately for that white thread across the track. Again
he heard the thud and crunch of the St. Eustace runner’s feet almost
beside him; heard, far more dimly, the shouts of excited onlookers, and
again felt his effortful gasps as he gained inch by inch. The captain
of the track team had been the first to reach him as the tape fluttered
to the ground and he turned, half reeling, onto the turf. And he had
thrown an arm about him and lowered him gently to the welcome sod and
had whispered three short words into his ear, words that meant more
than volumes of praise:
“_Good work, Dick!_”
The vision faded and the boy, with a sigh that expressed more happiness
than a laugh could have done, turned away from the mantel. The crimson
silk sash-curtains, drawn to the sides of the two windows, glowed like
fire, but the shafts of sunlight had traveled up the walls to the
ceiling, and the study was growing dim. In the fireplace a pile of wood
and shavings was ready to light, and Dick, scratching a match along the
mantel edge, set it ablaze and drew an easy chair to the hearth. With
the shabby school-book in his hands, he settled comfortably against the
cushions, and, his gaze on the leaping flames, let his thoughts wander
as they willed.
There was plenty to think of. Before him lay five of the busiest,
most important months of his school life, months that would be filled
with plenty of hard work, much pleasure, and probably not a little
worriment, and which might be crowned with a double triumph for him,
for his hopes were set upon graduating at the head of his class and
upon turning out a crew which in the annual boat-race with Hillton’s
well-loved rival, St. Eustace, would flaunt the crimson above the blue
in a decisive victory. To attain the first result many long hours of
the hardest sort of study would be necessary, while the last would
require never-flagging patience, tact, courage, and skill, and would
demand well-nigh every moment of his time not given to lessons. The
outlook did not, however, frighten him. He had returned to school
feeling strong and confident and eager to begin his tasks.
When, the preceding June, after a sorrowful defeat by St. Eustace,
the members of the Hillton crew had met to elect a new captain,
Richard Hope had been chosen because he above all other candidates
possessed the directness of purpose, the gift of leadership, and the
untiring ability for hard work requisite to form a winning eight from
unpromising material; even the defeated candidates for the post,
which at Hillton was the highest and most honorable in the gift of
the school, applauded the choice, and, with a possible exception,
honestly felt the pleasure they expressed. The possible exception was
Roy Taylor, one of the best oarsmen at Hillton. Taylor had striven hard
for the captaincy and had accepted defeat with far less graciousness
than had the other three candidates, though he had tried to hide his
disappointment under a mask of smiling indifference. The recollection
of Roy Taylor was this evening almost the only source of uneasiness to
Dick as he watched the mellow flames leap and glow.
Presently he pushed back his chair, lighted the drop-light on the table
and drew the blinds. It was almost supper time. Throwing aside his
coat, he unpacked his satchel, distributing several presents about the
study. Then, with his toilet articles in hand, he opened the door into
the bedroom and started back in surprise. Between the two narrow iron
bedsteads stood a pile of luggage. A dilapidated tin trunk, painted
in ludicrous imitation of yellow oak, flanked a handsome leather
portmanteau, while upon these was piled a motley array of bundles and
bags; a tennis racquet and two cricket bats were tied together with
three brightly colored neckties; a battered golf bag fairly bristled
with sticks; a pair of once white flannel trousers were tied about
at the ankles with strings, and were doing duty as a repository for
discarded shoes, golf, tennis, and cricket balls, and sundry other
treasures. The improvised bag had fallen open at the larger end and had
disgorged a portion of its contents in the manner of a huge, strangely
formed horn of plenty. Crowning all was a soiled clothes bag, vivid
with purple lilies on a yellow ground, whose contour told plainly that
it held books.
Quickly following his first moment of surprise came to Dick a knowledge
of what the presence of the luggage meant, and his grin of amusement
was succeeded by a frown. The boy who had shared his quarters with
him at the beginning of the year had left the academy in October, and
Dick had held sole possession of the rooms until now. He had been
told that with the commencement of the winter term he would have a
roommate, but until that moment he had forgotten the fact. He wondered
as he spluttered at the wash-stand what sort of a chap his future chum
was, and drew ill augury from the queer collection of luggage. With
towel in hand he walked around the pile and studied the labels and
the initials that adorned trunks and bags. The former were numerous;
plainly the owner of the yellow tin trunk had traveled, for a Cunard
steamship label flanked a red-lettered legend “Wanted,” and the two
were elbowed by the paper disk of a Geneva hotel. The initials “T.
N.” told him nothing, save that the owner’s name was probably Tom.
Well, Tom was a good enough name, he thought, as he applied the brush
vigorously to his brown hair, and as for the rest he would soon learn.
Drawing on his coat and lowering the light, he hurried across to
Warren Hall and supper. The dining-room was well filled, and as he
made his way to his seat at a far table he was obliged to return a
dozen greetings, and had he paused in response to every detaining hand
that was stretched out he would scarcely have reached his seat in
the next half hour. It was pleasant to be back again among all those
good fellows, he thought as he laughingly pulled himself free from
the clutches of his friends, and pleasanter still to know that they
were glad to have him back. His heart beat a little faster than usual,
and his cheeks were a little more flushed as he clapped his nearest
neighbor on the shoulder and sank into his chair, only to leave it
the next moment and detour the table to shake hands with Professor
Longworth, who had bowed to him smilingly across the board.
“Vacation seems to have agreed with you, Hope; you look as hearty as
you please. You must let Mr. Beck see you before the bloom wears off;
he’d rather see one of you boys looking fit than come into a legacy.”
“I’m feeling fine, sir,” laughed Dick, “and I’m so glad to get back
that even trigonometry doesn’t scare me.”
“Hum,” replied the professor grimly. “Just wait until you see what I’ve
got ready for you.”
Dick was soon busy satisfying a huge appetite and listening to the
veritable avalanche of information and inquiry that was launched at him.
“St. Eustace has chosen the negative side in the debate, Hope, and old
Tinker’s tickled to death; says he’s certain we’ll win, because----”
“Dick, come up to my cave Saturday afternoon, will you? Burns isn’t
coming back, and he’s written me to sell his stuff, and we’re going to
have an auction; Smith junior’s going to be auctioneer, and we’re going
to hang a red flag out the window, and----” “Did you hear about that
upper middle chap they call ‘’Is ’Ighness’? He nearly upset the coach
this afternoon, they say, and Professor Wheeler’s going to put him on
probation. Chalmers says he told Wheeler that----” “We’ve got some
dandy hockey games fixed, Hope; Shrewsburg’s coming down Monday next if
the ice holds and St. Eustace about the first of Feb.” “You ought to’ve
been with us, Hope, last Saturday. We went fishing through the ice, and
Jimmy Townsend caught four regular whales; and we cooked them at the
hut on the island and had a fine feast, only the silly things wouldn’t
get quite done through, and tasted rather nasty if you didn’t hold your
nose and swallow quick.” “Say, have you seen Carl Gray? He told me to
tell you that he’d be up to your room after supper; wants to see you
most particular, he says. Don’t forget I told you, ’cause I promised
I would.” “I’m going to try for the boat, Hope. When shall I report?”
“When you make the crew, youngster, I’ll win a scholarship; and that
won’t happen in a thousand years!” “Speaking of the crew, Dick, Roy
Taylor says we’re goners this year.”
Dick helped himself generously to the blackberry jam.
“How’s that?” he asked calmly.
“Says we haven’t got good material.”
“If we had seven other fellows as good as Taylor we’d be all right,”
responded Dick. “And as it is, we’ve turned out cracking fine crews
before this from even less promising stuff. Well, I’m off. Never mind
what Todd says, Jimmy; show up with the others and have a try. I only
wish there were other chaps as plucky!”
And amid mingled groans of reproach and derision Dick pushed back his
chair and left the hall. When he reached the second floor of Masters he
saw that the door of Number 16 was ajar, and that some one had turned
up the light.
“Gray’s waiting, I guess,” he told himself. “Wonder what he wants?” He
pushed the door open, and then paused in surprise on the threshold.
In Dick’s big green leather armchair, his slippered feet to the blaze,
a book in his hands, reclined very much at his ease the youth who had
driven the stage-coach.
CHAPTER III
“’IS ’IGHNESS”
At the sound of the closing door the boy in the chair glanced up, laid
aside his book, and pulled himself to his feet. Despite his annoyance
at what he considered the other’s cheekiness in having taken possession
of the study without explanation or apology, Dick was forced to a
grudging admiration for the appearance of the boy who confronted him.
He was such a healthy, wholesome-looking duffer, Dick thought, that it
was a shame he hadn’t better sense. What Dick saw across the length of
the study table was a broad-shouldered youth of sixteen years, attired
in a ludicrous red dressing-gown, much worn and faded, which, despite
the efforts of a knotted cord about the waist, failed by several
inches to envelop his form. His face was somewhat square in contour,
with a chin a trifle too heavy for beauty, but, as Dick reflected,
undoubtedly appropriate to the rest of the features. The eyes were
intensely blue and the hair was neither brown nor straw-colored, but of
some indescribable shade between. The cheeks were full of very healthy
color. For the rest, the youth was of medium height, sturdily built,
and, save for an easy smile of unembarrassed greeting which annoyed
Dick at the moment, was decidedly prepossessing.
During the moment of silence that followed the closing of the door,
employed by Dick in a mental stock-taking of his future roommate, the
latter’s eyes were not idle. He had been told that Richard Hope was
the captain of the crew, a position of honor which he reverenced as
devoutly as only an English lad can, and he was curious to see what
manner of boy filled that important office at Hillton. He saw a tall
youth, muscular rather than heavy, with shoulders that filled out the
coat almost to the bursting point, and a fairly small head set well
back. He saw a face with clean-cut features; a straight, sensitive
nose, rounded and prominent chin, eyes rather far apart, and high
cheek-bones that gave a look of thinness to the face. The eyes were
brown, and the hair under the cloth cap was of the same color. Above
the nose were two distinct short vertical lines, the result of a habit
of drawing the brows together into something approaching a frown when
anxious or puzzled. Just at present the lines were deep, and the
general expression of the face was one of ill-concealed annoyance. It
was the boy in the queer red dressing-gown that first broke the silence.
“I fancy you’re Hope,” he said smilingly. “My name’s Nesbitt, Trevor
Nesbitt, upper middle; I’m to share your quarters, you know.”
“I’m very glad to know you,” answered Dick, without, however, much of
delight in his tones. “I saw your luggage in the room before supper,
although, of course, I didn’t know that it belonged to--er----”
“To the beggar that was so cheeky on the coach, eh?” said Trevor. “I
didn’t know it myself--that is, until I went to the office. They told
me before recess that they’d put me in a room in Masters, but I didn’t
know who I was to be with. I----” He paused, with the slightest look
of embarrassment. “Fact is, I want to apologize for what I said on the
coach. I didn’t mean to be waxy, but those bally gees pulled so like
thunder--and I didn’t know who you were, of course, and----”
“It’s all right,” answered Dick. “I wouldn’t have interfered only I
thought you were going to upset us, and, being a senior, it was my
duty, you understand.”
“Of course, I see that,” responded Trevor earnestly. “You were right to
do what you did, and you ought to have beat my silly head for me. You
can now, you know, if you like.”
Dick smiled, and then was sorry. He had meant to maintain a lofty
expression of hauteur, in order to impress Trevor with the fact
that while he was willing to pass the other’s impertinence on the
coach he could never bring himself to an approval of a youth who so
needlessly endangered the lives of his companions in order to satisfy
a selfish whim, and who had so stubbornly transgressed the Rules of
the School (the latter suddenly appeared unusually sacred to Dick,
and he mentally spelled it with capital letters). But the smile had,
he feared, somewhat spoiled his effort. He hastened to reassume his
expression of calm disapprobation, and asked:
“Did Professor Wheeler learn of it?” He had thrown aside his coat and
had seated himself before the hearth. Trevor perched himself on an arm
of the big chair and smiled a trifle ruefully.
“Yes; I had a long talk with Wheels. I fancy he said some very good
things, but I was so beastly hungry that I’m not certain. He told me to
stay in the Yard for a couple of weeks; rather nasty of him, don’t you
think?”
“Well, Nesbitt, under the circumstances, of course----” began Dick.
Then he paused as he saw, or thought he saw, a twinkle of amusement in
the blue eyes before him.
“Oh, well, two weeks is soon over with, and I had lots of fun while it
lasted.” Trevor smiled reminiscently.
“You had driven before, I suppose?” asked Dick with supreme indifference.
“Yes; the pater and I used to do a good bit that way at home--in
England, you know--and then last summer at Richfield I kept a nag or
two rather busy.”
“Have you been in this country long?” Dick really didn’t care, of
course, but one had to make conversation.
“Four years; the pater came over here to look after his business and
brought me with him; the manager died. Then we thought--that is, the
pater did--that he’d better stay in New York and look after the
American agency himself for awhile. And we’ve been here ever since.
Last summer we decided that I’d better go to school somewhere. The
pater wanted me to go back to the other side and enter Rugby, but
I rather fancied staying over here; so I found out about American
schools, and when some one told me that Hillton generally turned out
the best eights I decided to go there.” Dick displayed interest.
“Do you row?” he asked almost eagerly.
“I’ve rowed a little when I’ve had a chance, which hasn’t been often.
Americans don’t seem to do much that way. When I was a little chap I
was a good bit of a wetbob, and was on the water a good deal. The pater
taught me all I know when I was about twelve; he rowed stroke two years
in the Cambridge boat.”
“Well, I hope you’ll try for the crew,” answered Dick, with kindly
condescension. “We want all the candidates we can get; and even if you
don’t make the varsity boat this spring, there’s the second; and you’d
have a good show for next year.”
“Thanks,” replied Trevor calmly; “I’d made up my mind to have a try for
it. I rather fancy I’ll make the varsity.”
Dick stared. Such confidence staggered him, and he tried to detect
amusement on the other’s countenance. But his new roommate was staring
seriously into the flames, for all the world, Dick thought, as if
he were trying to decide whether to accept the place at bow or
stroke. Trevor swung himself from the chair arm and tried to wrap his
dressing-gown closer about him.
[Illustration: PLAN OF HILLTON, N.Y.
REVISED FOR HILLTON ACADEMY]
1. Academy Building.
2. Gymnasium.
3. Physical Laboratory.
4. Chemical Laboratory.
5. Masters Hall.
6. Bradley Hall.
7. Turner Hall.
8. Warren Hall.
9. Society House.
10. Principal’s residence.
11. Hampton House.
12. Professor Bowles.
13. Mrs. S. R. Higgins. B. and R.[*]
14. J. P. Bromfield. R.
15. J. A. Wurzbach. R.
16. Professor Lea.
17. W. H. Vance. B. and R.
18. A. L. Hutchins. R.
19. Miss P. R. Long. R.
20. Dr. Wainwright.
21. Methodist Church.
22. H. D. Robins.
23. J. A. Hamilton. R.
24. T. H. Brown. B. and R.
25. Kingston House.
26. Congregational Church.
27. L. H. Bickford.
28. Mrs. A. V. Knoedler. R.
29. N. D. Haewood. R.
30. L. Beard.
31. L. S. Scott.
32. Merrill House.
33. Porter’s store.
34. J. J. O’Neill. R.
35. Grammar School.
36. Baptist Church.
37. Caper’s store.
38. Post-Office.
39. Court-House.
40. Town Hall.
41. Primary School.
42. Watson’s Stables.
43. Eagle Tavern.
44. S. W. Hamment. B.
45. H. MacFarland.
46. W. W. Carroll. B. and R.
47. Episcopal Church.
48. D. W. Coolidge. B. and R.
49. H. M. Gibbs. R.
50. C. E. Noyes. R.
51. Miss O. Jasper. R.
52. Joseph Grace Hospital.
53. Boat-House.
54. Heating plant.
[*] B, board.
R, rooms to let.
“Well, I fancy I’d better get that luggage out of the way. I didn’t
want to unpack until you came and could tell me where to put the
things. I’ve got a few pictures and some books, you know.”
“You can have either side of the study you want,” answered Dick. “I
was alone and so I stuck my things all round. If you like I’ll take my
stuff off that wall there.”
“Oh, but I say,” expostulated the other, “don’t do that. You’ve got the
den looking so jolly nice it would be too bad to spoil it by taking
anything down. I’ll just stick one or two of my chromo things where
there’s room. I never was much at fixing up; my den always looks like a
bally stable.”
He passed into the bedroom and Dick heard him pulling at knots and
straps and between whiles whistling a lugubrious tune that sounded all
flats. Dick spread his feet apart comfortably, thrust his hands into
his pockets and smiled at the fire; Nesbitt’s cock-suredness was truly
delightful! “He fancied he’d make the varsity!” Dick’s grin enlarged
and he chuckled softly. He almost wished that it wasn’t necessary
for him to dislike his new roommate; there was something about the
boy, possibly his placid assurance, that appealed to him. But--and
Dick’s smile froze again--it wouldn’t do for him to even appear to
countenance such escapades and--er--cheekiness as Nesbitt had indulged
in that afternoon. The youngster--he was Dick’s junior by a year--must
be taught that at Hillton fun is one thing and----
Dick’s reverie was interrupted by the subject, who appeared with a
bunch of photographs in his hand.
“Do you mind if I put a couple of these on the mantel?”
“Certainly not; it’s half yours, of course.”
The tone was very chilly, and Trevor’s cheeks flushed slightly as he
arranged the pictures behind the army of mugs. He started away and
then came back again, and, taking a photograph from its place, looked
hesitatingly at Dick, who was apparently supremely indifferent to his
presence.
“That’s the pater,” he said finally, holding out the card, and speaking
a little wistfully. Dick took the picture. It showed a middle-aged man,
rather military looking, in riding clothes; a fine, handsome chap, Dick
thought, and, having no quarrel with Trevor’s father, he said so:
“He’s awfully good-looking, Nesbitt.”
Trevor took the photograph and observed it a moment with smiling eyes
ere he placed it back on the mantel. He was evidently monstrously proud
of his father; but he only replied with elaborate indifference:
“He’s rather a good sort, the pater.” He took the rest of the pictures
down and held them out. “Here’s some more if you care to see them.”
Dick pretended to smother a yawn. “Thanks,” he said.
“I’m not boring you?” asked Trevor apologetically.
“No, indeed.” Dick was looking at the likeness of an elderly woman in a
high lace cap. “Not your mother, is it?”
“No, that is my Aunt Grace; she lives in Manchester. I haven’t a
picture of the mater here; we have only one, and the pater keeps that.
She--she died when I was quite a youngster.”
“Oh,” said Dick softly. “I’m sorry. Mothers are--well, I wouldn’t want
to lose mine, Nesbitt.”
“I fancy not. We--the pater and I--were awfully cut up when the mater
died. That’s a cousin of mine; he’s at Rugby.”
The picture showed a stolid-looking boy with decidedly heavy features
attired in flannels and leaning with studied carelessness on a
cricket bat. It was typically English, Dick thought as he laid it
aside. A photograph with “Maud” scrawled across the bottom in high
angular characters showed a conscious-looking young lady of eighteen
or nineteen years simpering from a latticed doorway. “That’s Cousin
Maud,” explained Trevor; “she’s engaged to a lieutenant of engineers
in South Africa; she’s a jolly nice girl.” When Dick had seen the last
of the photographs Trevor rearranged them on the mantel, and while
he was doing so there came a knock at the study door, followed by
the entrance of a youth in a long ulster on which the snowflakes were
melting.
“Hello, Earle, come in!” cried Dick, arising and shaking hands with the
newcomer. “Where’s Carl?”
Stewart Earle, a slim, bright-faced boy of apparently fourteen years of
age, shook the flakes from his coat and drew a note from his pocket.
“He couldn’t come over, Hope, so he asked me to bring this to you. I
had to come over to the library. It’s snowing like all get out.”
Dick took the note and ran his eyes over it. The little creases
deepened on his forehead as he tossed it onto the table. “Take off your
coat, Earle, and sit down. By the way, do you know Nesbitt?” And as the
two shook hands, “Nesbitt’s going to share these quarters with me.”
“Can’t stay,” answered Earle, “for I’ve got an hour’s work looking up
some silly stuff about some silly Grecian war. You’re looking awfully
fit, Hope.”
“So are you,” laughed Dick. “You don’t look at all like the pasty-faced
little junior of two years back.”
“I don’t feel like him, either,” answered Stewart with a smile. “Shall
I say anything to Carl?”
“Yes, tell him I’m awfully much obliged, and that I’ll look him up
to-morrow if I don’t meet him at recitation. Good-night; sorry you
won’t stay.”
When the door had closed again Dick took up the note and reread it.
“Dear Dick” (it ran), “Wheels has sent for me to go over to his
house this evening; something about the indoor meeting. So I
sha’n’t be able to see you to-night. What I was going to tell
you was that Taylor’s been trying to raise trouble on the quiet
with the crew fellows. He says we can’t turn out a crew that
will stand any show of winning, and is trying to discourage the
fellows. I’ll tell you more when I see you to-morrow. Stewart’s
going to take this over to you.
“Yours in a hurry,
“CARL.
“P. S.--Somebody ought to punch Taylor’s head--hard.”
Dick smiled as he tore up the missive, and then frowned. It was what he
might have expected of Taylor, he told himself, and yet it was a bit
discouraging. However, there was no use in meeting trouble half-way.
He got a book and settled himself to study. In the bedroom Trevor was
still distributing his belongings, and still whistling his tuneless
air. When bedtime came Dick was silent and preoccupied, a fact which
Trevor noticed.
“Hope you haven’t had bad news,” the latter said.
“Oh, no,” answered Dick, “nothing to hurt.”
Trevor turned out the gas and climbed into bed.
“Good-night,” he said.
“Good-night,” answered Dick.
For a long time the latter lay staring into the darkness thinking of
Carl Gray’s note, and of Roy Taylor, and of Trevor Nesbitt; a good deal
of Trevor. And the more he thought, the less satisfied with himself he
became. His last thought as he turned over on his pillow and closed his
eyes was that he had behaved like a particularly disagreeable prig.
CHAPTER IV
IN THE GYM
Trevor left the dressing-room and climbed the stairs to the running
track. The gymnasium was quiet and filled with the twilight of a winter
afternoon. It was but a few minutes after three, and, save for a youth
who was heroically exercising with the weights, the building appeared
deserted. But as he reached the head of the stairs the soft pat of
shoes on the boards greeted him, and he stepped aside to let a lithe
runner jog past. He recognized him as Stewart Earle, the boy who had
brought the message to Dick Hope the night before, and when he next
passed he nodded.
“Hello,” answered Stewart as he slowed down a little, “I didn’t
recognize you. Awfully dark to-day, isn’t it?”
“Beastly,” responded Trevor. Then, with a glance at the big clock he
started into a slow jog, lifting his feet high and stretching his
muscles, that were somewhat stiffened by a week’s idleness. A flood of
subdued white light bathed the track from the big north window, and as
he passed he could hear the soft _swir_ of the snowflakes against the
glass. It had been snowing all night and all day, and showed as yet no
sign of abatement. The broad skylights in the roof were covered deeply,
and looked from beneath like sheets of lead.
The boy at the weights stopped and disappeared into the dressing-room.
Perhaps he found it lonely work there all by himself. The pat of
the runners’ shoes alone broke the stillness. Trevor took his pace
from Stewart, and for some time the two circled the track. It was
twenty-four laps to the mile, and when he had accomplished that
distance Trevor went down and put in several minutes with the weights.
Several other boys had entered meanwhile, and were changing outdoor
clothing for gymnasium suits. When he had rubbed himself dry after a
shower bath, Trevor took a seat by Stewart and began to dress leisurely.
“Do you run much?” he asked.
“Yes; that is, I try. I did a mile and a half to-day. I’m going to try
for the two hundred and twenty yards at the indoor meet.”
“Why, so am I,” answered Trevor. Stewart grimaced.
“I guess it’s all up with me, then,” he said ruefully. “They say you’re
a dandy sprinter.”
“Oh, I’m not much. I suppose there are lots of entries, eh?”
“Only about sixteen, I think. You’re one of the upper middle relay
team, aren’t you?”
“Yes, I’m to run last, I believe. I hope we beat the seniors,” laughed
Trevor.
“I guess I’ve got more reason to want to win than you,” responded
Stewart. “My father and mother are coming up for the meet. We live in
Poughkeepsie, you know; I’d like awfully to win that two-twenty, but I
guess I won’t.”
“Well, I don’t think you need be afraid of me,” said Trevor; “I feel
rather rusty to-day. Fact is, you know, I’m a bit too heavy on my legs
for sprints, I fancy. I think I’ll chuck it after Saturday night; I’m
going to try for the crew.”
“Are you?” said Stewart admiringly. “You look as though you’d make a
cracking good oar. I sometimes think I’d like to try for the crew;
perhaps I can year after next; Beck doesn’t want me to now, he says.”
“Doesn’t want you to? Do you mean he’s forbid you?”
“N-no, he hasn’t forbidden me; but I always do as he tells me.
You see”--Stewart paused in the middle of a struggle with a white
sweater--“Beck’s done all sorts of things for me. Why, when I came
here a year ago last fall I only weighed about eighty pounds; I was
always tired, and didn’t have any--any ambition for anything; used to
sit in my room and read. Of course there’s no harm in reading, but I
didn’t seem to do anything else; Gray--I room with him over in the
village--Gray used to call me the ‘White Mouse.’ I guess I was a pretty
poor-looking youngster. Well, Professor Beck got hold of me one day
and induced me to take up a course of training; of course I’d been
doing my two days a week here at the weights and things, but I always
shirked and got tired, and it never did me any good, I guess. But Beck
made me take walks, wouldn’t let me eat anything but what was on a list
he gave me, and put me at weights. Finally he got me to try jumping,
and then running. I liked running right away. First thing I knew I
couldn’t get enough to eat, it seemed; used to be hungry every meal.
Then I entered the four hundred and forty yards last winter at the
indoor meeting and came in second. After that I couldn’t run enough. I
won the four hundred and forty at the handicap meet in the spring, and
wanted to go to the Interscholastic Meet, only Beck said I’d better
wait until this year. Of course I’m not a Samson yet, but I’m about two
hundred per cent better than I was a year or so ago. And--and Beck did
it. And that’s why I do what he says.”
“I see,” answered Trevor. “Well, Beck knows his business. You look
about as fit as any chap I’ve seen here, and I don’t blame you for
giving under to him. By the way, Gray’s the baseball captain, isn’t he?
Rather tall, thin chap?”
“Yes, he’s awfully smart, regular jack-of-all-trades. He used to do
stunts for the fellows, like mend golf clubs and cricket bats, and mold
golf balls and things, and made pretty near enough money last year to
pay his board and room rent. But he got the Carmichael scholarship
last winter, and so he doesn’t do much of that sort this term. This is
his second year as captain of the nine, and I guess he could be captain
again if he was going to be here, but he goes up to college next fall.
He--he’s been a--he’s been awfully kind to me--ever since I came here.”
Stewart glanced rather apologetically at Trevor, doubtful as to whether
he would feel a schoolboy’s contempt for the trace of feeling that he
had unintentionally allowed to creep into his tones. But Trevor smiled
understandingly.
“Must be a good sort,” he answered sympathetically. “Hello, here’s
Hope.”
Dick approached and nodded smilingly to the two. He had a slip of paper
in his hand, and as he greeted them he glanced over the dressing-room
as though in search of some one.
“Have either of you fellows seen Professor Beck?” Both replied in the
negative, and Dick folded up the slip and placed it in his pocket.
“I’ve been looking all over the place for him; wanted to see him about
the crew candidates. By the way, Nesbitt, we want you to report here a
week from Tuesday at four o’clock. I’m going to post the notices this
evening. Carl tells me you’re going to try for the two hundred and
twenty yards, Stewart?”
“Yes, I’m down for it, but Nesbitt here says he’s entered too, and I’m
rather doubtful of my chances now.”
“I didn’t know you ran,” said Dick, turning to Trevor.
“Oh, yes, I run a bit, now and then. I’ve been jogging round the track
and feel as stiff as a poker.”
“That’ll wear off all right. I was stiff myself to-day--at recitations.”
“I should say so,” exclaimed Stewart. “I honestly didn’t know a thing.
I think they ought to give us a day after recess to get caught up
with things; a fellow can’t do any studying the night he gets back to
school. I went to the library last night and almost fell asleep over an
encyclopedia.”
“Well, you did better than I did. I scarcely looked into a book.”
“Ditto,” said Trevor. “‘Turkey’ gave us fits; there wasn’t a chap in
the English class knew what the lesson was.”
“Well, I’m going to have a go at the weights,” said Dick. “See you two
later.”
“And I guess I’ll go back to the room,” said Stewart. “If you haven’t
anything better to do, Nesbitt, you might walk over that way.”
“Thanks, but Wheels is rather careful of my health just now, and
doesn’t want me to leave the grounds; he’s afraid I might get my feet
wet, I fancy; so I’ll come over and see you some other time. I have
half an idea to do some studying, just to be queer.”
The two went out together, and Dick, opening his locker, proceeded to
attire himself in his gymnasium clothes. The room had filled up with
boys, and he was kept busy answering questions about the crew. A big
youth in a blue-and-white striped sweater entered, and, seeing Dick,
made for him at once.
“Say, Hope, is it so that we’re not going to have any crew this spring?”
“No, it’s not so. We’re going to have the best crew that we ever put
into the water,” answered Dick. “Who told you such rot as that?”
“Blessed if I know who did say it, but I’ve heard one or two fellows
talking about it. I’m glad there’s no truth in it, old chap; I didn’t
think there was, you know. When are we going to work?”
“Report a week from Tuesday at four, will you? I guess we’ll start the
trouble about the fifteenth. And say, Crocker, if you hear any one
talking nonsense about no crew or poor material, just call them down,
will you? There’s nothing in it, and it’s hard enough anyhow to get the
fellows to turn out without any rumors of that sort.”
“All right.”
Crocker swung himself off, and Dick went into the gymnasium and set
to work at the weights. With the cords over his shoulders and the
irons sliding rhythmically in the box, he began to go over in his mind
a conversation he had had a half hour before with Carl Gray. Carl’s
information had not been encouraging, and Dick was more worried than
he liked to own even to himself. Carl had stayed at the academy during
the recess, as had Roy Taylor--the first for financial reasons, the
latter because his home was half-way across the continent. According
to Carl, Taylor had been very active for a week past in predicting a
failure for the crew among the old men and the possible candidates. He
could have but one end in view, to discourage the fellows, and render
it difficult, if not impossible, for Dick to get enough good men to
form a winning eight. The worst of it was, he reflected, that Taylor’s
manner of creating discouragement was so artful that it was out of the
question to charge him with it. Even during his loudest talk about the
uselessness of trying to form a good crew, he never failed to announce
his intention of reporting for practice and of doing all in his power
to avert the impending defeat. And now, as evidenced by Crocker’s
remark a few minutes since, he had even managed to gain circulation for
the report that there was to be no crew at all!
Dick changed his position, pulling the grips with half-arm movement to
his shoulders, and frowned wrathfully at the wall. Carl was right, he
told himself; Taylor deserved to have his head punched! That, however,
was the last remedy to be considered, if only for the reason that to
lose Taylor from the boat meant almost certain defeat. For the big
Nebraskan was without any doubt the best man at Number 7 that a Hillton
crew had had for many years--strong, a hard worker, and an excellent
oar. Plainly the last thing to do was to antagonize him. Besides, he
was popular among quite a lot of the fellows, and his word undoubtedly
had weight; another reason for making almost any sacrifice to retain
his good-will. If there was only another man to take his place at
Number 7, thought Dick, tugging the cords viciously, he’d mighty
soon spoil his game, but--he ran quickly over the fellows who by any
possible stretch of the imagination might be considered material for
Taylor’s position in the boat, and sighed. There was no one. It might
be that there was one among the newer candidates who, by dint of hard
work, could be fashioned into a good Number 7, but to lose Taylor
for such a possibility was risky work. No, the only course was to
apparently know nothing of Taylor’s underhand work, to undo it as best
he could, and to at all hazards keep him in the crew. For a moment Dick
wished that Taylor had been made captain.
“Hello, Hope!”
Dick turned to find a big, good-looking youth of eighteen with a rather
florid complexion and black eyes and hair smiling broadly upon him. He
was dressed in knitted tights and jersey that showed an almost perfect
form, and swung a pair of boxing-gloves in one hand.
“Hello, Taylor,” answered Dick, forcing himself to return the smile.
“How are you?”
“First-rate. Glad to see you back. Some one said you were in here, and
I thought I’d look you up; wanted to ask about crew practice. When are
the fellows going to report?”
“Tuesday week.”
“All right; I’ll be on hand. Rather a tough outlook, though, I expect.”
“Oh, I don’t know; we’ve enough of last year’s fellows to make a good
basis for the new crew. I think we’ll do pretty well.”
Taylor shook his head sadly, then looked up and smiled brightly.
“Well, never say die, eh? We must all do our best. You can count on me,
you know, old fellow. In fact, I’ve been drumming up trade already;
persuaded quite a bunch of chaps to report. The trouble is that they
don’t seem to think it’s worth while; seem to be cock-sure that we’ll
be beaten.”
“Do they? I haven’t heard anything of that sort. There isn’t any good
reason for it, anyhow.”
“Oh, come now, Hope, you’ll have to own up we’ve got a hard row to hoe.
I wouldn’t say so to any one else, you understand, but just between
ourselves, I don’t think we’ve got the ghost of a show.”
“Well,” answered Dick smilingly, “all the more reason for hard work.
And for goodness’ sake, don’t let the fellows hear you talking that
way.”
“Me? I guess not,” protested Taylor. “I know better than that, I hope!
Well, I’m going to have a bout with Miller; see you again.”
As the other turned and crossed the floor, Dick became possessed of an
almost overwhelming desire to follow him and call him to account; to
have it out with him then and there, and, if necessary, to--to---- His
fists clenched themselves and he set his teeth together. He was glad
when Taylor passed from sight. Turning again to the weights he seized
the cords and for many minutes the irons bumped and banged up and down
in the slides as though--well, as though some one thereabouts was
hopping mad.
CHAPTER V
THE INDOOR MEETING
The gymnasium was brilliantly lighted, and the seats that had been
placed under the balconies were well filled, for, despite the
inclemency of the weather, the town folks had turned out in force
for the indoor meeting. The floor had been cleared of standards and
bars, while ropes, rings, and trapezes had been relegated to the dim
recesses of the arching roof. A running track had been roped off on
the main floor, with inclined platforms at the corners of the hall to
aid the runners at the turns, while the regular track above was turned
into a temporary gallery from which the fellows who were not going to
compete--and there were about a hundred and fifty of them--viewed the
fun, leaning far over the railing, laughing, shouting, and singing
excitedly. The four classes had gathered each to itself as far as was
possible; the seniors on the left, the upper middle class on the right,
the lower middle at one end of the hall and the juniors at the other.
In front of them long draperies of class colors festooned the railing,
and class challenged class with cheers and songs, and the Hillton band
struggled bravely with a popular march.
The trial heats in several of the events had already been run off,
and in the middle of the floor a number of contestants were putting
a canvas-covered twelve-pound shot with varying success when Stewart
Earle, accompanied by Trevor Nesbitt, left the dressing-room, and
pushing their way through the narrow aisles between the rows of chairs,
at last reached the former’s father and mother, who, in company with a
tall and slender boy of sixteen, occupied seats next to the improvised
barrier that divided audience from running track.
“I want you to know Trevor Nesbitt,” said Stewart. “Nesbitt, my mother
and father. And that little boy beyond there is Master Carl Gray.”
Trevor shook hands with a small, middle-aged gentleman in sober black,
who peered upward at him in a manner that suggested near-sightedness,
and with a lady somewhat younger than her husband, whose plain but kind
face and sweet voice at once won his heart. As Gray was quite beyond
reach of his hand, he merely accorded that youth a smiling nod. Stewart
was still talking.
“You remember, mother, I told you that Nesbitt was going to run in
the two hundred and twenty yards, don’t you? Well, the funny part
of it is that we ran a dead heat in the first trial! I guess I’m a
goner already.” He ended with a smile that only partly concealed his
uneasiness.
His mother smiled from him to Trevor.
“Then you two boys will run together?” she asked.
“Yes, ma’am,” answered Trevor. “There’s five of us left for the final.”
“That’s very nice,” she replied, “for if Stewart is beaten he will not
feel so badly if you are the winner, will you, dear?”
Trevor muttered something about there being no danger of his winning,
while Stewart answered gaily: “But you’re leaving the other three chaps
out of the game, mother; perhaps one of them will beat us both.”
“No fear,” said Carl Gray; “Dunlop’s a stiff, Wharton isn’t in your
class, Stew, and as for Milkam, well, I think you can beat him out all
right at a hop; so it’s between you and Nesbitt, and may the best man
win.”
“That’s right,” said Mr. Earle, nodding his head approvingly. “If your
friend is a better runner than you, Stewart, he should win, of course.
When do you race?” He held a program up to his eyes and scowled in an
endeavor to decipher the lines.
“In about twenty minutes, I guess. Let me see, father.” Stewart
took the program. “‘Twenty-yard dash, junior; twenty-yard dash,
senior; putting twelve-pound shot; running high jump; one-mile run;
pole vault; sixty-yard hurdle; eight-hundred-and-eighty-yard run;
two-hundred-and-twenty-yard dash; relay race, one mile, lower middle
class versus junior class; relay race, one mile, senior class versus
upper middle class.’ Well, you can’t tell by this, I guess; they’ll
just pull off the events when they feel like it.”
“All out for the eight hundred and eighty yards,” cried a voice across
the building.
“There, see?” said Stewart. “That event’s down after the hurdles; you
can’t tell much by the program; you never can. I wish they’d call the
two hundred and twenty now, though.”
“Getting nervous, Stew?” asked Carl Gray.
“A little, I guess. There they come for the half mile. Look, there’s
Keeler of our class; he’s one of our relay team; isn’t he a peach?”
“A what, dear?” asked his mother.
“A--er--well, I mean isn’t he fine?” stammered Stewart, while Carl and
Trevor exchanged grins.
“Is he? He looks from here dreadfully thin,” answered Mrs. Earle.
“That’s partly what makes him a good runner,” explained Stewart. “He’s
all muscle, scarcely any weight to carry.”
“Well, dear, I do hope you won’t get to looking like that.”
“Humph, I should hope not.” This from Stewart’s father. The bunch of
ten runners had left the mark, and had begun their long series of tours
about the track, cheered from the gallery by their fellows. “Go it,
Keeler!” shouted Stewart as a youth with ludicrously long legs ambled
past, almost the last of the group. A quick glance and a fleeting grin
from a queer, good-humored, and very freckled face answered Stewart’s
cry, and the runners swept by, their feet pounding loudly as they took
the inclines at the turns. The shot putting was over and the victor, a
dumpy-looking boy with the lower middle class colors across his shirt,
had been clamorously hailed as he walked off with superb dignity, and
the vaulting standards were being put in place while a group of half a
dozen youths trod gingerly about looking very serious and important.
Finally the bar was up, with a white handkerchief across it, and one
after another of the contestants, with the long pole in their hands,
ran lightly forward, rose till their white-clad bodies swung out from
the staff like pennants, and dropped across the bar.
“Why, how easily they do it!” cried Mrs. Earle admiringly, and
Stewart’s father clapped his hands vigorously.
“Huh,” said Stewart, “that’s nothing; they haven’t begun yet; just wait
until they get that bar up to about nine feet.”
“Nine feet! Why, how high is it now, dear?”
“’Bout seven foot eight, I should think; eh, Carl?”
“There it goes to the even eight,” answered Carl, as the judges raised
the bar.
“Is--is there any danger of their falling, Carl,” asked Mrs. Earle.
“Not a bit, and if they do they’ll hit the mattress. I say, Stew, look
at Keeler.”
The runners had completed half the distance, and as they again swept
by the freckled-faced and long-legged lower middle class boy left his
place near the rear of the procession, and with an easy spurt placed
himself in the first group. The three boys added their applause to that
which thundered down from the far end of the gallery.
“I wouldn’t be surprised if he won,” said Trevor. “He’s running easy
and has lots more spurt left, to look at him. But, of course, Manning
is a pretty tough proposition, I fancy.”
“Manning isn’t what he cracks himself up to be,” said Carl decidedly.
“And I’ll just bet you that Keeler wins out easily.”
A bell clanged warningly, and the tumult in the gallery increased.
“Last lap, fellows! Last lap!” “Go it, Freckles!” “Brace up, Manning!
Come on, come on!” But Manning couldn’t “come on” to any great extent,
and the lower middle boys, leaning perilously over the edge of the
gallery, fluttered their colors frantically and shouted incoherent
advice, entreaty, and triumph as Keeler, his long legs working like a
well-lubricated machine, his freckled face overspread with an easy and
confident smile, swept superbly by the exhausted Manning and two other
runners and crossed the line, as Carl had predicted, an easy winner.
When the tumult had subsided to some extent the trial heats in the
senior twenty-yard dash were begun, the track being diagonally across
the floor, and bunch after bunch of white-clad youths raced like
the wind toward the tape. The pole vaulting came to an end with a
record-breaking accomplishment of nine feet two inches by a member
of the upper middle class, and the running high jump began. Then,
“All out for the two-twenty, and hurry up!” came the command from
somewhere, and Stewart and Trevor struggled through the throng toward
the dressing-room to throw aside their wraps.
A minute or two later five boys stood on their marks awaiting the
report of the starter’s pistol. Trevor found himself by the side of
Dunlop; then came Stewart, Milkam, and Wharton. There was a golden haze
of floating dust in the air, and the faces of Stewart’s father and
mother and of Carl Gray were indistinct across the building.
“Ready!”
“Get set!”
There was an intense silence about the starting-line, but from above
came a deep sound of lowered voices, subdued laughter and the tramping
of restless, excited feet.
“_Bang!_”
And ere the report had wholly died away the five runners were a
quarter-way about the track on the first of the three laps constituting
the two hundred and twenty yards.
As they passed under the left side of the gallery the seniors leaned
over in an endeavor to catch sight of them and urged their two heroes,
Wharton and Milkam, with eager cries. Then the turn was made, and
Trevor, glancing upward fleetingly, saw a long row of faces peering
down with open mouths from which came shouts of “Nesbitt! Nesbitt!”
“Dunlop! Dunlop!” A long banner of upper middle class colors writhed
serpent-like above him, and then he was under the gallery, running
swiftly. Now and then he caught a blare of a merry two-step from the
hard-worked band. He glanced aside. Stewart was even with him, his face
anxious and somewhat pale. Wharton, Milkam, and Dunlop were strung out
behind, but all well in the race.
Up in the gallery, on the left, sat Dick Hope among the seniors. Beside
him were Williams and a stout, red-faced youth whose real name was
Todd, but who was more generally known as “Toad.” Dick watched the
runners circle the end of the building.
“First lap’s done,” he said. “That roommate of mine, Nesbitt, seems to
be something of a runner.”
“Sure,” answered Todd, “’Is ’Ighness is all right, if he _is_ a bloody
Englishman.”
“I’d rather be English than Dutch, Toad,” grinned Williams.
“Shut up, you; I’m no more Dutch than you are. Here they come! _Brace
up, Wharton!_” and Todd leaned over the railing and waved his cap
wildly in air.
“You might as well save your breath, I guess,” said Dick. “Wharton’s
out of it, and so’s Milkam. The race’s between Nesbitt and young Earle.
And as we can’t win it, I hope Earle will. He’s a decent, plucky
youngster; and--well, anything to beat upper middle, you know.”
“You’re not very loyal to your chum,” grinned Williams.
“He has no business being in the upper middle,” responded Dick calmly.
“By Jove, look there!”
Across the gymnasium the runners were speeding down the back-stretch,
Trevor and Stewart, side by side, leaving the other three farther and
farther behind at every step. Wharton and Milkam were practically
out of it; Dunlop was ten yards to the bad, but running strongly and
apparently still capable of retrieving his lost ground. At the turn
Trevor hugged the inside of the track and Stewart, smaller, lither, and
speedier-looking, snuggled in close behind him. Dunlop, head back, a
look of grim determination on his face, spurted until he had gained a
position but a scant two yards behind Stewart.
“Good boy, Dunlop!” shouted Williams, while from across the building
came a wild cry of joy from dozens of throats.
“I guess that’s his last spurt,” muttered Dick; “he’s showing the pace.”
And so it proved. The bell rang warningly, and the shouting from
excited partisans increased in volume as the last lap commenced.
Trevor, still ahead, increased his speed. Stewart accepted the
challenge promptly, and Dunlop, after a brave but futile effort to
keep his place, was left behind. Milkam and Wharton plodded along
easily a full half lap in the rear until the latter, spying Dunlop’s
predicament, suddenly spurted, and entered the lists with him in a
contest for third place, leaving Milkam, bewildered, hopelessly last.
[Illustration: On the last lap.]
At the second turn Trevor had given place to Stewart. When the two
entered the back-stretch Trevor drew alongside his rival again, stayed
there for an instant, and then drew ahead. The gymnasium was a babel
of voices. The last lap was half run, and Trevor had put two yards of
track between him and Stewart. Many yards behind Dunlop and Wharton
were having a hot race of their own wholly unnoticed, for every eye
followed the two youths whose flying feet were now pounding the incline
at the third corner.
“’Is ’Ighness wins easily,” said Todd, shouting to make himself heard
above the shrieks of his neighbors. Dick nodded. He was sorry to see
Stewart beaten, but surprised to find himself suddenly experiencing a
sensation of pride in the work of his roommate. After all, he had run a
great race and deserved to win; and really, when he came to think about
it, Nesbitt was handicapped by greater weight, and----
“Earle’s closing up!” cried Williams.
And so it was. With the contest almost over, the younger boy had forged
ahead, and at the last turn secured the inside of the track. Trevor
was wobbling! Twice he swerved unsteadily, but as the home-stretch was
reached appeared to pull himself together with an effort, and gallantly
strove to pass Stewart. But the latter, running steadily and seemingly
untired, not only held his own, but tacked another two yards onto his
gain and breasted the tape an easy winner! And how lower middle did
yell!
Dunlop and Wharton fought it out to the end side by side, the former
securing third place by the smallest of margins.
“Well, what do you think of that!” exclaimed Williams in deep disgust
as soon as he could make himself heard. “Why, ’Is ’Ighness had the race
in his pocket!”
“I think----” Dick hesitated.
“What do you think?” Dick smiled.
“I think Nesbitt was beaten,” he answered.
Williams viewed him in painful disgust.
“I think you’re nutty,” he growled. “Don’t you suppose I can see when a
man’s beaten?”
“Not always, I guess,” replied Dick enigmatically.
Whereupon Williams begged Todd to bathe Dick’s head, and in the fracas
that followed the amazing result of the two-hundred-and-twenty-yard
dash was for the time forgotten.
CHAPTER VI
THE RELAY RACE
That evening was destined to be one of triumph for Stewart Earle
and the lower middle class. In the relay race that followed the
two-hundred-and-twenty-yard dash the juniors had never a chance from
first to last, and lower middle’s fourth man cantered home almost in
time to tag the junior’s last runner ere he left the mark. Stewart
and Trevor viewed the contest squatting on the floor beside the seats
occupied by Mr. and Mrs. Earle and Carl Gray.
Stewart’s mother had welcomed victor and vanquished with impartial
favor, although her pride and pleasure in her boy’s success was
patent to all. Stewart’s father smiled near-sightedly at Trevor, and
assured him that he had made a remarkable race, but his words didn’t
disguise for a moment the fact that he had expected Stewart to win,
and that he was somewhat surprised at Trevor’s thinking for a moment
that he (Trevor) stood any chance of victory. Even Stewart appeared
uncomfortable at his father’s tone, and strove to change the subject
lest Trevor should feel hurt. But the latter was genuinely glad that
Stewart’s parents had witnessed a victory for their son and had never
a thought of disappointment or envy. As to the reason for his sudden
and unexpected giving-out, however, Trevor had little to say, and when
Carl suggested that perhaps he had insufficient training since the
recess he eagerly acknowledged that that might have had something to do
with it.
“But I never had a hope of winning,” Stewart had cried, “after the
second round! I just kept on going because--well, you know--just to
make as good a showing as I could. When you fell behind I was so
surprised that I almost stopped.”
The sixty-yard hurdle-race proved of exciting interest to Mr. and Mrs.
Earle, and every one else, for that matter, and was won in the closest
kind of a finish by a senior class fellow in the remarkably good time
of eight seconds. The one-mile run followed, but failed to awaken
much enthusiasm from the audience, who were impatient for the final
event, the senior-upper middle relay race. When the mile run was half
over Trevor shook hands with Mr. and Mrs. Earle, and, encouraged by
their hearty wishes for his success, hurried off to the dressing-room.
Kernan, captain of the upper middle team, took him aside and questioned
him anxiously.
“I’m afraid you’re not very fit, Nesbitt. I was going to run you last,
but I guess I’ll let Chalmers have the final and put you second. How do
you feel?”
“Spiffin!” answered Trevor heartily, “never felt better. Don’t get it
into your noddle that I’m done up, old chap, and don’t change the
order on account of that two-twenty dash. That was judgment more than
anything else----”
“Judgment!” ejaculated Kernan. “I didn’t see much judgment in it!”
“That’s your stupidity, Kernan. Can’t stop to explain now; but just you
go ahead and let me run last, like a good fellow, and I promise you you
won’t regret it.” Kernan frowned hesitatingly; then his face cleared
and he slapped Trevor on the back.
“All right, Nesbitt; run last you shall. I don’t pretend to understand
that two-twenty, but I’ll trust you to do your work. We’ve got a stiff
race, I guess, but we’re not beaten yet. The seniors will put Taylor
last, I expect; he’s a good man, all right, but if we can hold onto
them until the last round I think you can down him. What do you say?”
“I say you give me a fairly even start with Roy Taylor, and I’ll beat
him out!” answered Trevor doggedly.
“That’s the stuff! Of course, I can’t promise the even start, but I’ll
do my best, Nesbitt; and you’ll do yours, I know, and----”
“Ready for the relay! All out, fellows!”
Trevor, Kernan, and the other two members of their team, Chalmers
and Johnston, hurried to the starting-line, followed by four very
proper-looking boys wearing the senior colors. The band, hidden from
sight by a fringe of shouting juniors at the end of the gallery, played
for all it was worth. The seniors and upper middle fellows were
cheering the members of their teams individually and collectively, and
the uproar was tremendous.
Professor Beck, athletic director, and at present that court of last
appeal, the referee, gave the instructions in quick, clear tones as
the first two contestants stood on their marks. The professor was a
short man who wore glasses, who always dressed faultlessly, whether
for a principal’s reception or an afternoon on the campus, whose
slightest turn of the head or crook of the finger bespoke authority,
and whose voice, ordinarily low but incisive, could swell into a very
fair imitation of a speaking-trumpet on short notice. For the rest,
he understood boy nature from A to Z, and beyond, and could turn a
good track athlete out of anything except a wooden post, given the
opportunity. Hillton fellows, when graduated from the narrow prejudices
of the junior year, worshiped two local deities--Professor Wheeler,
the principal, and Professor Beck; and there was a well-defined notion
prevalent that should some beneficent Fate remove from the academy all
the rest of the faculty things would not only continue undisturbed, but
would run better than ever.
I have dealt at some length on Professor Beck because he is a person of
much importance. When he dies--may the day be far!--his portrait will
hang beside those of the founder and past principals in the chapel, to
be outwardly guyed and inwardly reverenced by succeeding generations of
loyal Hilltonians.
“Now, get them off quickly,” commanded the professor. The starter cried
his perfunctory “On your marks! Get set!” and then the little pistol
barked with all the ferocity of a toy spaniel, and the great event of
the meeting, the senior-upper middle one-mile relay race, was on.
Johnston, for the upper middle, and a youth named Cummings, for the
seniors, shot off together, and began their quarter mile as though they
had but one lap to accomplish instead of six. The pace was too good to
last, and every one knew it, including the runners, and so, when they
had made the first round of the track, they slowed down as though by
mutual consent, and went at the contest in businesslike style. Seniors
and upper middle classmen cheered their respective candidates, and
hurled taunts across the hall.
“The U. M. is a stupid pup
Who laps his milk from out a cup;
He may have sense when he grows up
And gets to be a Senior!”
To this chanted aspersion the upper middle fellows replied with
howls of derision, and started upon their own poetic catalogue of
the deficiencies of the rival class, the first verse of which ran as
follows:
“Said the Prof. unto the Senior:
‘You must alter your demeanor,
For such ways I’ve never seen; you’re
Quite as awkward as a hen;
Your walk is most unsightly, sir;
Pray place your feet more lightly, sir,
And always bow politely, sir,
To the Upper Middle men!’”
There were five more verses to it, and while it lasted the seniors, led
by Dick and Todd, could only cheer incessantly and stamp their feet in
a hopeless endeavor to drown the song.
Meanwhile the first quarter of the race was nearly over, and Johnston
and Cummings, the former leading by a scant ten yards, were spurting
along the back-stretch. Then the senior runner reached the line,
touched hands with the next man, and dropped from the track tired and
breathless just as Cummings came up and Chalmers took his place in the
race.
As Johnston crossed the line Dick slipped his watch back into his
pocket. “Fifty-seven and four fifths seconds!” he bawled into
Williams’s ear. “Johnston ought to have done better by three fifths.”
Williams nodded. “We’ve got the start of them, however,” he answered.
On the second lap Clark, the senior runner, increased the lead to a
good fifteen yards, and from there on to the finish, Chalmers, try as
he might and did, could not close the gap, and the second quarter was
finished in the good time of fifty-seven and one fifth seconds. Kernan,
the upper middle team captain, entered the race with set, determined
face, and ere the first lap of the third quarter had been reeled off
had raised the flagging hopes of his classmates by a wonderful burst
of speed that put him on equal terms with the senior runner, Morris.
At the third corner he secured the inside of the track, and kept it
during the whole of the second, third, and fourth laps, although Morris
tried hard to reach him.
The shouting from the upper middle seats was wild and continuous, and
the swirling banners waved riotously over Kernan as, with head back and
bare legs twinkling, he sped along, every instant now lengthening the
space between him and the pursuer. And then suddenly the cheers and
shouts of acclaim were changed to cries of alarm and dismay. There was
the sound of a fall, and a white-clad form plunged to the floor and
rolled over and over. Kernan at the third corner had tripped on the
incline.
Morris, racing along but a few yards behind, leaped over the rolling
body, stumbled, recovered himself after a few strides, and went on.
Half a dozen fellows hurried toward Kernan, but he was on his feet
again before they could reach him, and, although he was plainly bruised
and sore from his fall, took up the running pluckily, amid cheers. But
his task was a hopeless one. Morris had used the misadventure to good
purpose, and now between him and the upper middle captain a third of a
lap stretched. Kernan, with white face, tried desperately to make up
the lost ground, and even succeeded in doing so to some extent, but
Morris’s lead was too great, and that youth swept breathlessly over
the line, nearly a quarter of a lap to the good, and, touching the
impatient, outstretched fingers of Roy Taylor, sank exhausted to the
floor.
Trevor, poised for a quick start, heard Taylor’s feet resounding
over the first incline as Kernan, staggering by, touched his hand
for a fleeting instant and toppled over. With a dash Trevor took up
the running. A quarter of a lap was more than he had bargained for
when he had professed his ability to beat Roy Taylor, but he was not
discouraged. He knew Taylor well; knew that that youth was a fast and
steady runner at quarter- and half-mile distances, but knew also that,
while a spurt at the finish was quite within Taylor’s powers, a series
of fast dashes had the effect of worrying and exciting him. Trevor
laid his plans accordingly. He realized intuitively that he was in
better condition than his rival for hard and fast work; he had run in
the two-hundred-and-twenty-yard event, while Taylor had not been on
the track before that evening; a fact which, in Trevor’s present good
physical shape, worked to his advantage; his former race, despite his
defeat, had served to put him into excellent condition for this one. He
ran easily, maintaining the distance between Taylor and himself, and at
the commencement of the second of the six laps constituting the last
quarter of the race he was still a quarter of a lap behind.
“That’s good work, Nesbitt,” cried Kernan, who, sprawled out on a
mattress, was at last beginning to find his breath once more. The
band was almost vainly striving to make its brazen notes heard above
the shouting of the students, while pennants of class colors writhed
serpent-like in the air, and seniors and upper middle classmen hurled
defiant cheers at each other across the intervening space. The lower
middle boys and the juniors cheered indiscriminately, although there
was a tendency among the latter class to uphold the seniors. Dick,
Williams, Todd, and their companions leaned over the railing and
watched the contest excitedly. Trevor and Taylor had begun the second
lap, the former with eyes intent upon the youth ahead, the latter
running with a great show of style, and with an easy and confident
smile upon his face.
“Taylor runs just as he does everything,” grumbled Todd, “with one eye
on the gallery.”
“He does like to show off,” assented Williams. “Hello!”
A roar went up from floor and balcony, and Roy Taylor, just mounting
the second incline, turned his head to see Trevor coming up on him like
a whirlwind. Instantly he leaped away, and the seniors, for a moment
dismayed, gave voice to their relief and approval. Trevor settled down
into his former pace, well satisfied, for by that unexpected spurt he
had taken off nearly a half of the distance that had separated him
from his opponent. Taylor, as soon as he saw the danger over, settled
back into his former even but not extraordinary pace, and finished the
second lap running well within himself. The third lap began with more
encouraging prospects for the upper middle class.
CHAPTER VII
TREVOR’S VICTORY
“I don’t like Taylor’s letting ’Is ’Ighness creep up on him that way,”
objected Williams. “He was napping; and he’ll need every foot he can
get before the race is over.”
“Nesbitt’s doing some head-work,” answered Dick, with a note of
admiration in his voice, “and I wouldn’t be surprised to see him get
the best of Taylor yet. If he can keep up---- Look there!”
Trevor was at his former tactics. Just as Taylor reached the second
corner the upper middle boy fairly threw himself forward, and ere the
senior runner had taken alarm had closed up with him until a mere six
yards intervened. The upper middle fellows howled with delight, and the
seniors, striving to hide their dismay, cheered lustily. Taylor’s face
wore a scowl as he increased his speed and strove to regain his lost
lead.
But Trevor held what he had taken, took his pace from Taylor, and with
never a look to right or left, kept doggedly at the other’s heels. The
fourth lap started in a veritable pandemonium. Taylor was now but a
scant ten yards in the lead, and those who saw Trevor’s calm, intent
gaze fastened upon the other boy’s shoulders realized that, barring a
mishap such as had fallen to the lot of Kernan, he would, if he did not
actually win, at least finish so close behind Taylor as to make the
race one of the closest ever witnessed at Hillton, indoors or out.
This time Taylor was on the lookout, and when Trevor spurted was
ready for him and so held his advantage. Trevor was well satisfied,
for he had no wish to pass Taylor at that time, but only to tire and
worry him. His spurt lasted until the line was again crossed. And now
Taylor took the initiative and increased his speed, for, as Trevor had
expected, the short spurts had made him nervous. But shake off his
pursuer he could not, and with the lap half run but five yards lay
between the two.
“He’s a silly chump!” shouted Todd angrily, glaring across at the
speeding senior runner. “Why doesn’t he keep that for the last lap;
can’t he see he’s begun to spurt too early?”
“I have an idea that Trevor Nesbitt’s got him scared,” answered Dick.
“You just bet he has; he’s worried to death!” This from Williams, who
was scowling blackly. “He deserves to lose it.”
“And Nesbitt deserves to win it,” said Dick.
“Humph! You seem to have changed your tune!”
Dick accepted the gibe good-naturedly.
“I have; I think Nesbitt’s the headiest youngster I’ve seen in a long
while, and as for Taylor----”
The bell clanged loudly, announcing the beginning of the last lap, and
every fellow in the balcony was on his feet in the instant. As he took
the first turn Taylor glanced hurriedly back and met the unwavering
and, as it seemed to him, relentless stare of Trevor, and putting every
effort into his work again increased his pace. Everybody was shouting
now, but as the two runners passed under the seniors’ balcony one voice
sounded more loudly than all:
“Good work, Nesbitt!”
And Trevor heard it and recognized Dick Hope’s voice, and for an
instant a smile crossed his face. Then the second incline was under
his feet, and he had to use care lest he trip. But he got safely over,
and now the time for his final effort had come. Into the back-stretch
he sped, and the watchers held their breath, for foot by foot the lost
ground was being eaten up by his flying feet. Then a burst of applause
shook the rafters and Taylor, running despairingly, heard the other
lad’s feet at his side, strove to goad his wearied limbs into faster
strides, and found with dismay at his heart that he had reached his
limit.
At the third corner Trevor with a final effort leaped into the lead,
hugging the inside of the track. At the last corner he was a yard to
the good, and from there down to the finish line, where Kernan and
Chalmers and Johnston leaped frantically about the floor, he held his
vantage, and so toppled over into eager, outspread arms, aching,
breathless, and weak, but winner of the race. And as he stretched
himself gratefully on the mattress he heard the timekeeper announce:
“Last quarter, fifty-seven and one fifth; the mile, three forty-eight
and two fifths.”
When Trevor reached his room he found Dick seated in front of the fire,
a Latin text-book face downward in his lap, his arms over his head,
and his eyes closed. The fire was almost out, and the room was chilly.
Trevor as silently as possible placed another log in the grate, and,
disappearing into the bedroom, came out again with his dressing-gown,
which after a moment’s hesitation he spread over the sleeper’s knees.
Then he doffed his coat and cap, and standing by the fireplace held
his chilled hands to the blaze and looked down at Dick. And as he
looked he fell to wondering why it was that he and his roommate got
on together so badly. It was not _his_ fault, he told himself; he had
tried every way he knew to thaw Dick’s indifference. It was now ten
days since the winter term had commenced, and the two boys were as
much strangers to each other as they had been after Trevor’s burst of
confidence on their first night together. Trevor often regretted that
confidence; he sometimes thought that he had bored Dick with his family
photographs and history, and remembered with a flush that his roommate
had never responded in like manner. Of course, his cheekiness on the
stage-coach during that unfortunate drive had been the primary cause
of Dick’s dislike; and Trevor couldn’t blame the latter for taking
umbrage; only--well, he had apologized and explained, and it seemed
that the other ought to be willing to forgive. It was not that Dick was
nasty; he treated Trevor with good-humored politeness; fact was, Trevor
reflected dubiously, Dick was altogether too polite; his politeness was
of the sort which he imagined a judge might display toward the prisoner
in the dock. He wished that Dick would throw a boot at him so that they
could have it out and come to an understanding.
Dick moved restlessly and opened his eyes. His gaze encountered
Trevor’s and he smiled sleepily and stretched himself. Then he sat up
and looked about him perplexedly.
“Well, if I didn’t go to sleep!” he said. “What time is it?”
Trevor glanced at the battered alarm-clock on the table. “Ten minutes
of twelve,” he answered.
Dick yawned and suddenly spied the dressing-gown. He pulled it toward
him and looked at it in astonishment.
“What----?”
Trevor flushed as he answered hurriedly: “It was so bally chilly here
when I came in, you know; and I thought that maybe you’d catch cold. So
I threw that over you. Just pitch it on the floor there.”
“Thanks,” said Dick. “I expect it was chilly. I was going to put
another stick on the fire, and while I was thinking about it I suppose
I fell asleep. It’s pretty late, isn’t it? Well, to-morrow’s Sunday.”
He arose and the two began to prepare for bed. There was something in
Dick’s tone and manner quite friendly, and Trevor was puzzled.
“That was a great race you ran, Nesbitt,” said the former presently.
“The last one wasn’t so bad,” answered Trevor.
“Bad! It was fine!” replied Dick warmly. “It was the best bit of
head-work I’ve seen on a track. And I was glad you beat Taylor, even if
it did mean the loss of the race to the seniors. But I rather think I
liked the first race better.”
“Well, of course you would,” said Trevor. “Earle’s a friend of yours;
and he ran a good race. I--I didn’t much mind his beating; he seems
like a jolly good sort of a chap.”
“He is a good chap; and I know it pleased him like anything to win that
race, because his father and mother were there, you see.”
“Yes.”
“It would have been too bad if he’d lost it, wouldn’t it?” Dick was
smiling rather queerly, Trevor thought.
“I suppose it would,” he answered.
“Yes; and so you gave it to him.”
“What--what do you mean?” stammered Trevor, very red and uncomfortable.
“Why,” laughed Dick, “just what I said. You’re not going to deny that
you slowed down and let him win, are you?”
For a long moment Trevor was very busy with his nightshirt, which
suddenly exhibited an unwonted dislike to going on. Then:
“I fancy there’s no use denying it,” he muttered from the folds of the
mutinous garment.
“Not a bit,” answered Dick smilingly.
“You see,” explained Trevor presently, “Earle had set his heart on
winning, and it didn’t mean anything to me, you know; I hadn’t any
relatives looking on; and then his mother was so--so jolly nice about
it, and his father, and--and all, that I just thought he might as well
win. Doesn’t it--don’t you think it was all right?”
“Well, it wasn’t exactly fair, you know; but I guess it was something
even better,” answered Dick.
“Do you think Earle suspected anything?”
“I’m sure I don’t know; I didn’t see him. But Williams and Todd, who
were sitting with me, thought it was a straight race, and so I guess
Earle thought so too.”
Later, when the lights were out and the two were in bed, Dick broke the
silence.
“Are you awake, Nesbitt?”
“Yes,” came the reply from across the darkness.
“I’ve been thinking I’d take a good, long walk to-morrow after church;
up the river toward Port Wallace. Like to go along?”
“I should say so!” was the hearty reply.
“All right, I wish you would. Good-night.”
“Good-night,” answered Trevor. Then, as he burrowed his head
contentedly in the pillow, he thought: “I fancy it’s all right now, and
he won’t have to throw that boot after all!”
CHAPTER VIII
CANDIDATES FOR THE CREW
Roy Taylor’s work was apparent when on the following Tuesday afternoon
the candidates for the crew reported in the rowing-room at the
gymnasium. Dick counted the assemblage over twice, but could make no
more than nineteen, a sorry showing compared with last year; twenty
men--including himself--from which to select two eights! But he was
careful to let none of the discontent that he felt appear on his face.
“There aren’t very many of us, fellows,” he said cheerfully, “but I
guess we all mean business, and that’s a good deal.”
Professor Beck entered at that moment, paused to remove his rubbers,
and then surveyed the candidates through his glasses.
“Well, boys, are you all here?” His gaze traveled around the room. “But
I see that you’re not. Four o’clock was the hour, wasn’t it, Hope?”
“Yes, sir; and it’s now a quarter after. I guess they’re all here that
are coming.”
“Bless me, this won’t do! How many--four, six, ten, sixteen, twenty?
Twenty men for two crews. What do you fellows think we’re going to race
with this year, pair-oars?”
The candidates, perched about the room on window-sills and radiators,
smiled, but were careful not to laugh aloud, since it was evident that
the professor was thoroughly vexed.
“Hope, you’ll have to go among the fellows and work up some interest in
the crews; and Taylor, you’re an old-crew man, you do the same; and the
rest of you, too, I want you all to talk rowing, and next week I want
as many more candidates on hand. This is perfect poppycock! Twenty men,
indeed! Well, that’s all I’ve got to say to you; now listen to Captain
Hope.” And the professor withdrew to a window, where he polished his
glasses vigorously and made a number of the new candidates very nervous
by the critical way in which he studied them.
“I’d like every fellow’s name before he leaves,” said Dick. “And I
want to see every one here promptly at three o’clock next Wednesday
afternoon. Meanwhile those of you who haven’t been examined for
crew work will please attend to it. Have you set any special days,
professor?”
“Yes, to-morrow and Saturday afternoons,” answered the latter, “between
four and six.”
“You new fellows must understand that permits to take part in baseball
and track games won’t answer for rowing, so please see Mr. Beck
to-morrow if possible; if not, on Saturday. I hope that you’ll do as
Mr. Beck has requested; I mean try and work up more of an interest
in rowing; every fellow ought to be able to bring at least one other
fellow with him next Wednesday. We’ve got a hard proposition before
us this spring, but it’s by no means a hopeless one. We’ve beaten St.
Eustace on the river before--often--and we can do it again; but it
means lots of hard work, and any fellow that’s afraid of work might
as well pull out now, for we can’t have any shirking. Last spring
there was a good deal of trouble at the first of the season because
the candidates--some of them, that is--tried to get out of preliminary
work. That won’t do; the work on the weights at the beginning of the
season is really important, and it’s got to be faced; and I tell you
now that any fellow who won’t go through with it honestly isn’t wanted.
But I don’t believe there are any of that sort here to-day, and I hope
there won’t be next Wednesday. I guess that’s all I have to say. I
hope every fellow will bear in mind the fact that in trying for the
crew he is not only bettering his own physical condition and health,
but standing by the school; he can’t do more for the honor of Hillton
than by honest, sincere work on the crews. And it doesn’t make any
difference whether he makes the varsity boat or the second; in either
case he’s doing his best, doing his duty; for the fellow that rows with
the second eight is helping to turn out a winning crew almost as much
as though he rowed in the race with St. Eustace. I hope we’ll all pull
together this year and that there won’t be any discord. I’ll do my
level best, and I’ll trust you fellows to do yours; and if that is so I
defy St. Eustace or any one else to beat us!”
The audience showed its approval of these sentiments by clapping,
Taylor perhaps the loudest of all, and Dick, somewhat red in the
face from his effort, smiled, and drawing a tablet from his pocket,
proceeded to take the fellows’ names. Professor Beck settled his
glasses again on his nose and approached a youth who during the
proceedings had been perched comfortably on the top of a radiator, but
who, having secured the entry of his name in the list of candidates,
was now examining with interest the working of one of the rowing
machines.
“You’re Nesbitt, aren’t you?” asked the professor.
“Yes, sir.”
“Ever rowed any, Nesbitt?”
“Yes, as a youngster”--here the professor smiled slightly--“I used to
paddle a bit; that was in England.”
“Ah, yes; I recollect you now. You won the last quarter in the relay
race the other night; that was well run, my boy, although you’re rather
too heavy for fast work. How was your wind when you finished?”
“It was rather short; the spurts tuckered me quite a bit.”
“Yes, I imagine you could get rid of eight pounds or so to good
advantage. You’d better come and see me to-morrow and take your
examination, so that I can put you to work on the weights as soon as
possible. I’m glad you’re going to try for the crew; you look as though
you were made for a rowing man.” He nodded smilingly and moved away,
and Trevor, assuming an appearance of unconcern, while secretly much
flattered by the professor’s attention, joined Dick, who had finished
his list and was conversing with Roy Taylor and Crocker, a large,
heavily built youth who had rowed at Number 6 in the second eight the
preceding year. Taylor was speaking when Trevor approached.
“Why, last winter over forty fellows turned out, and now look at ’em!
Great Scott! There’s no use _trying_ to get a decent crew out of twenty
men!”
Dick frowned, and Crocker offered a suggestion:
“Look here, the Hilltonian comes out in less than a week; what’s the
matter with getting Singer to write a ripping editorial about the
necessity for more candidates, and--and ‘asking the support of the
entire student body,’ and all that sort of stuff? Maybe there’s still
time; I’m blamed if I know when the paper goes to press.”
“That’s a good idea, Bob,” answered Dick. “And I’ll see Singer this
evening. And meanwhile you fellows do what you can; you ought to be
able to drum up lots of fellows, Taylor; you know plenty of them, and
what you say has weight.”
“Well, I’ll do what I can, Hope, of course, but there doesn’t seem to
be the usual interest in rowing this year.”
“I know; we’ve got to awaken interest. I’ll see you the last of the
week and we’ll have another council of war. Going back to the room,
Nesbitt?”
On their way across the Yard, which between the walks was a waste
of heavily crusted snow upon which the afternoon sunlight flashed
dazzlingly, the two boys were silent--Dick with the little creases in
his forehead very deep, and Trevor kicking at the ice in a manner which
suggested annoyance. When the dormitory was reached Trevor stopped
and let go savagely at a small cake of ice, which, as it was securely
frozen to the granite step, only resulted in an unpleasant jar to his
foot. But the jar seemed to loosen his tongue, for he turned quickly to
Dick as they passed into the building, and asked explosively:
“Is that chap Taylor all right?”
“Why? Have you heard anything?” asked Dick.
“No; only--only he looks as though he didn’t much like you, Hope; and
then he talks so sick!”
“Sick?”
“Yes; I mean he talks as though he didn’t _want_ the crew to be a
success; haven’t you noticed it?”
“The trouble with Roy Taylor,” answered the other gravely as they
passed into Number 16, “is that he hates to have any one else win out
at anything. He has a mighty high opinion of Roy Taylor, you know. He
wanted to be captain, and I don’t think he has ever forgiven me for
beating him; but I guess he’ll come round in the end and do his best
for the crew.”
Trevor didn’t look impressed with this last remark. He studied the
flames awhile thoughtfully as he held his hands up to the warmth. Then:
“I see. I don’t fancy, then, he loves me much after the way I beat him
Saturday night, eh?”
“I guess not,” answered Dick laughingly. “I ‘fancy’ we’re both down in
his black book.”
“Yes.” Trevor turned away and rummaged among the _débris_ of the study
table. “Seen my algebra? Never mind, here it is.” He drew a chair up
before the fireplace and opened the book, only to lay it down again and
deliver himself forcibly of the following declaration:
“Taylor may be as waxy with me as he likes, Hope, but he’s got to
understand that if he interferes with this crew business there’s a
plaguy lot of trouble ahead for him!”
“And for me, too,” thought Dick, as he gazed despondently at the slim
list of candidates.
CHAPTER IX
THE HOCKEY MATCH
The balance of the week was a busy time for Dick. His usual hour of
study before supper was dropped, and he spent that time with every
other spare moment in trying to recruit candidates for the crews.
He buttonholed boys in classroom and even in chapel, pursued them
across the frozen Yard, waylaid them in the corridors, and bearded
them in their dens; and all with small success. Those who displayed a
willingness to go in for rowing were almost invariably younger fellows
whose ambitions were better developed than their muscles. Those whom
Dick longed to secure had an excuse for every inducement he could set
forth. The seniors pleaded lessons; the upper middle fellows were going
in for baseball, cricket, anything save rowing; the lower class boys
were unpromising to a degree; and when Saturday came he found that
out of a possible ten recruits the most promising was a long-legged,
pasty-faced youth who had been dropped from the hockey team and whose
desperate desire to distinguish himself in some manner was alone
accountable for his complaisance.
That Taylor and Crocker and some of the other candidates had been
busy was evident from the first--Taylor especially, Dick told himself
bitterly.
“Try for the crew?” said one senior whom Dick approached, “why, Roy
Taylor was speaking to me about it, and I promised him I’d think it
over. But I don’t see how I can, Hope; you know yourself how beastly
hard the studies are this term; I’m an awful duffer at mathematics, and
German, too; and then as for physics--well, really I can’t see how I’m
ever going to pass.” And when Dick pointed out modestly enough that he
(Dick) had the same studies and was going in for rowing, and expected
to graduate notwithstanding, the other waived the argument aside
carelessly: “Oh, _you_, Hope! You’re different; you’re one of those
lucky beggars that never have any trouble with lessons. Why, if I was
like you I wouldn’t hesitate an instant; I’d say put me down for the
crew right away. But as it is---- By the way, is it true that you’ve
only got twenty candidates?”
“Who told you that?” asked Dick.
“Taylor, I think. That isn’t very many, is it? I don’t see how you’ll
get a crew out of that.”
“Nor do I,” muttered Dick, as he turned away discouraged.
When Saturday came, bringing Carl Gray at two o’clock with the
suggestion that Dick join him and witness the hockey match with St.
Eustace, the latter concluded that he had earned a vacation, and so
donned his warmest sweater and jacket and allowed himself to be torn
away from the subject of candidates. As the two lads crossed the yard
toward the steps that led down to the river by the boat-house they
encountered Trevor, who, when their destination was made known to him,
turned about and joined them. It was a bitterly cold day, and the wind,
sweeping down the broad river, nipped ears and noses smartly. Despite
this, however, a fair-sized audience had assembled on the ice near the
landing, where a rink had been marked out, and were either circling
about on skates or tramping to and fro to keep warm.
“Haven’t begun yet,” said Carl Gray as they reached the head of the
steps. “Looks as though they were having a debate instead of a hockey
match.”
As they reached the ice they saw that the captain of the Hillton team,
an upper middle youth named Grove, was in earnest conversation with a
St. Eustace player--apparently the captain of the opposing team--while
a circle of interested boys surrounded them. As the three approached
the gathering broke up, and Grove, spying Dick, came toward him looking
angry and indignant.
“Say, Hope, what do you think? St. Eustace wants to play that big dub
over there; see him? The fellow with the white sweater. Why, he’s
twenty-two if he’s a day! And he isn’t a St. Eustace fellow at all;
Brown knows him. He lives at Marshall and works in a mill or something.
I’ve told French that we wouldn’t play if they put him on. Don’t you
think that’s right?”
“He does look rather big and aged for a St. Eustace chap,” replied Dick
with a grin. “And of course if you’re certain he’s an outsider you’re
right not to give in. What does the St. Eustace captain say?”
“Oh, he says the fellow’s a day scholar; that he’s only eighteen; and
that they haven’t brought any subs, and that if Billings--that’s the
mucker’s name--if Billings can’t play there won’t be any game.”
“Queer thing to come all the way up here without any subs,” said Carl.
“But I tell you what you can do, Grove; offer to lend them a man. What
does Billings play?”
“Forward,” grumbled Grove. “We might do that. Who could we give them?”
“You’d have to give them a good player,” said Dick.
“I suppose so. Well, there’s Perry over there.”
“No, you don’t,” laughed Dick. “I know Perry; I talked with him the
other day; he’s the fellow you dropped from the team last week.” Grove
looked sheepish.
“Well, what business have they got trying such tricks?” he muttered
in extenuation. “I guess I’ll offer them Jenkins; he really is a good
player, Hope; you know that yourself; I’ll put Dennison in his place.
And if I do they’ll likely beat us.”
“Let ’em. Go ahead and make the offer.”
Grove sped away and promptly returned with the announcement that
St. Eustace had agreed. “But we want another goal umpire. Will you
act, Hope?” Dick would, and was led away. The rink was cleared of
spectators, and Trevor and Carl found places of observation on the
side-line. The opposing teams took their places. The Hillton players
wore crimson sweaters and stockings; before the St. Eustace goal were
six blue-clad youths and one crimson, the latter being Jenkins, the
borrowed forward. Grove and French, the St. Eustace captain, faced the
puck, the referee cried “Play!” and the game was on.
It proved a brilliant game, despite the high wind that seriously
handicapped the side having the down-river goal. Hillton’s playing
in the first half was quick and plucky, and for the first ten of the
twenty minutes St. Eustace’s goal was almost constantly in danger. But
try after try was foiled by the brilliant work of the Blue’s goal-tend,
who time and again won the applause of the shivering audience. Then St.
Eustace secured the puck and forced the playing, and for a few minutes
Hillton seemed to be taken off her feet. A beautifully lifted stroke
finally sent the puck skimming through Hillton’s goal, and the St.
Eustace players waved their sticks in delight. Hillton braced when play
began again, and was dribbling the disk threateningly toward the Blue’s
goal when time was called.
“I wish I had Jenkins back,” complained Grove as, bundled in his
blanket, he joined Trevor and Carl. “He played better than any fellow
on our team--or theirs either, for that matter.”
“Who shot that goal?” asked Carl.
“French; it was a dandy. Our little friend Billings yonder looks mad,
doesn’t he?”
The displaced player had joined the St. Eustace team, and was evidently
bemoaning his fate. He was a tall, freckle-faced youth who, as Grove
had said, appeared every day of twenty-one or two. He had a slouchy
stoop to his shoulders, but nevertheless looked dangerous as a hockey
player. Dick joined the other three lads.
“I just heard your freckled-faced friend explaining why it is you’ll
never make a good player, Grove,” he announced. “He says you don’t get
low enough; says he could put you off your feet easily.”
“He does, eh?” grunted Grove. “I wish we’d let him play; I’d put him
off _his_ feet, the big mucker!”
“There, there, keep your sweet little temper,” laughed Dick. “And come
on; time’s up.” The crowd took up its position along the boundary lines
again, and again the puck was put in play. Hillton had good luck at the
start. Superb team work on the part of the crimson-clad forwards took
the disk down to within striking distance of their opponents’ goal, and
a quick drive by Grove sent it through. St. Eustace’s goal-tend looked
surprised and vexed, and the audience cheered delightedly. Four minutes
later the same proceeding was repeated, and after two ineffectual tries
the puck slid through between the goal-tend’s skates just where he
apparently didn’t expect it to go. That was Dennison’s score, and again
the onlookers voiced their pleasure. The score was now two to one in
Hillton’s favor, and St. Eustace shook herself together and played
hard. For ten minutes neither side scored. Then, by a brilliant rush
down the side of the rink, Jenkins, the borrowed player, fooled the
Hillton cover-point, and, aided by French, ran past point and lifted
the disk through between the Hillton posts--a difficult shot that won
him lots of applause. The score was now tied, with a scant five minutes
of play left.
Trevor and Carl, deeply intent on the game, suddenly had their
attention diverted by a voice from near at hand. “What do you think
of that, now? What do those fellers in red think they’re playing,
billiards? O-oh, ain’t that awful!” It was the deposed St. Eustace
forward, Billings, who was celebrating the Blue’s recent goal, and
revenging himself on his enemies by ridiculing the home players. Carl
glared, and the throng surrounding him looked hostile to a boy.
“He ought to have sense enough to keep his mouth shut,” said Carl.
“Yes, but he’s got pluck to talk that way in this crowd,” replied
Trevor with a grin.
“Not a bit; he knows he’s safe enough. It isn’t likely that fifty or
sixty fellows would jump on one lone chap, no matter how cheeky he
was.”
The ridicule continued, but after the first recognition of the affront
the throng of Hilltonians tacitly ignored the freckle-faced youth;
indeed, in another minute his existence was forgotten, for with but
a couple of minutes to play St. Eustace’s point secured the puck,
and with a fine stroke sent it sailing down the rink into Hillton
territory, where a misplay on the part of the Crimson’s cover-point
gave Jenkins his opportunity, and the next instant Hillton’s goal was
besieged. A stroke at close quarters was blocked, and the disk skimmed
toward the side of the rink, only to be again recovered and dribbled
forward until it was once more in the possession of the redoubtable
Jenkins. There was a rush by Grove and another Hillton forward, the
sound of clashing sticks, and then out from the _mêlée_ like a shot
from a cannon sped the puck, straight for the goal and about two feet
above the ice. The Hillton goal-tend leaped to the left and turned to
receive the disk on his padded thigh. But he was too late. The puck
struck him, but was only slightly deflected, and in another moment
the St. Eustace sticks were waving high in air, and the goal-tend,
crestfallen and dazed, was ruefully rubbing his hip. Hillton returned
resolutely to the battle, and the puck was again faced, but time was
called ere it was well out of the scrimmage, and the game was St.
Eustace’s by three goals to two. Trevor turned away in disappointment,
and was confronted by the triumphant Billings, who was whirling his
stick about his head and grinning provokingly.
“Oh, easy, easy! Those kids can’t play hockey; they ought to be at
home doing needlework.” Carl muttered something uncomplimentary, and
Trevor reddened as they pushed their way through the dissolving throng.
Billings, spying Trevor as he approached, thrust himself in his path.
“Say, sonny, why don’t you kids learn the game?”
Trevor strove to keep his temper and pass, but the Marshall youth laid
a determining hand on his arm.
“You see, sonny, what you Hillton kids want to do is to learn how to
skate, see? There ain’t any use trying to play hockey until you can
skate.”
Trevor turned and smiled very sweetly.
“Perhaps you think you can skate?” he asked in a tone of polite inquiry.
“I have a hunch that way,” replied Billings with a swagger.
“That’s very nice,” answered Trevor, “because you don’t look as though
you could, you know.”
A circle of interested Hilltonians had already formed, and were
grinning their appreciation. Billings appeared somewhat astounded for
an instant. Then he thrust his jaw out aggressively, and asked angrily:
“Say, what’s the matter with you, kid? Do you think you can teach me
anything about skating?”
“Well, of course, I’m a month or two younger than you, you know”--here
the crowd snickered impolitely--“but I rather fancy that I can beat
you by a few yards in a half-mile race. Would you care to try?”
For a moment Billings looked doubtful. Possibly he thought that he had
unwittingly encountered the school’s crack skater, and feared for the
result. If he did the idea was dispelled by Trevor’s next remark.
“They don’t call me much of a skater here, you know; we have several
fellows who can beat me without trouble, but they’re all rather busy
just at present, and so, if you don’t mind putting up with something
ordinary, I’ll be glad to show you what I can about skating.” The
gentle patronage of Trevor’s tones was beautiful, and the audience
hugged itself gleefully. Billings laughed loudly and scornfully.
“You will, eh? Say, you’re awfully nice, aren’t you? Mama know you’re
out?” Trevor reddened but kept his temper.
“I fancy I could beat you by about twenty yards in a half mile,” he
said musingly.
That was the last straw, and Billings elbowed his way toward the
boat-house landing.
“Get your skates on, sonny, and I’ll show you what you don’t know about
skating.”
“Where can I get a pair?” asked Trevor, addressing the fellows about
him.
“Get Grove’s; what size shoe do you wear?” asked Carl. “Five? They
ought to fit; wait here and I’ll get them.” And he hurried off.
“Do you think you can beat him, ’Ighness?” asked one of the crowd.
“I fancy so; anyhow, I’ll do my best.” Carl returned with Groves
skating-boots, to which were screwed a superb pair of hockey skates.
Trevor tried them on, and found that they fitted perfectly. News of the
proposed race had spread, and those who had started toward their rooms
had returned, while the two hockey teams, having taken off their skates
and donned their heavy clothing, also joined the throng. Billings swept
up majestically, and Trevor, who had been trying his skates in short
circles, joined him.
“Suppose you skate around Long Isle and back,” suggested Grove; “that’s
about a half mile. We’ll draw a mark here for the finish. I say,
French, you might act as judge at the finish. Dick, you start them,
will you?”
“Standing start?” asked Dick.
Trevor looked inquiringly at Billings. “Doesn’t matter to me,” growled
that youth.
“All right. On your marks,” said Dick. “You’re to skate to the right,
around Long Isle, and return here, crossing this line in this way from
below. Is that satisfactory?”
Trevor nodded and felt for a hold with his rear blade, and Billings
uttered another growl.
“On your marks!--Set!--_Go!_”
Away they sped, Billings slightly in the lead, having learned the
science of quick starting from his hockey experience. They crossed
the river diagonally, heading for the down-stream end of the
island, Billings bending low, hands clasped behind his back, in the
approved style of American racers; Trevor more erect, arms swinging
by his sides, and apparently putting forth much less effort than his
competitor.
“Carl, can Nesbitt skate?” asked Dick somewhat anxiously. Carl shook
his head.
“Don’t ask me. I never met him until the other day. But he _can_ skate;
we can see that; the question is how well?”
“I hope he’ll win, if only to shut that bragging mucker up. Hello, look
there!”
Carl looked and uttered a groan of dismay. Long Isle, lying almost
abreast of the boat landing and about two thirds way across the river,
is in reality composed of not one, but two islands, the second,
scarcely twenty yards long, being separated from the main expanse
at its lower end by a scant two yards of ice-covered channel. This
fact had been overlooked, and now the watchers saw, at first with
surprise and then with annoyance, that the skaters had parted company.
Billings had headed for the channel, while Trevor, holding to a close
interpretation of the agreement, was making for the end of the smaller
island. The next moment Billings was out of sight; another instant and
Trevor too had disappeared.
“If Nesbitt can overcome that handicap he’s a good one,” muttered Dick.
“That’s so,” Carl assented. “It means a good fifty yards lost, I
guess.” Some of the boys had hurried across the ice to the island, and
from a point of vantage near its northern end were to be seen waving
their arms wildly. But the throng at the finish could gather no hint
from their gestures as to the progress of the racers.
“Evidently a misunderstanding there,” said French, the St. Eustace
captain, approaching Grove. “Which is Long Isle?”
“Both of ’em,” grunted Grove.
“Well, but----”
“Oh, it’s all right, I guess; Billings wasn’t supposed to know; it was
my fault; I forgot about that plaguy little bunch of land beyond there.
The fellow that crosses first wins,” he added decisively. “What do you
say, Hope?”
“That’s right; Billings couldn’t know that he was supposed to go around
both islands.”
“Very well,” answered French, “but I’m sorry there was any
misunderstanding. Your man may think that he might have won if it
hadn’t been for the mistake.”
“He may win anyhow,” said Dick dryly. “The race isn’t over yet.” French
looked to see if Dick was joking, but finding no signs of levity,
smiled politely and deprecatingly, and moved off. The next moment the
boys on the island left their places and came scrambling back across
the ice, and then a skater came into view around the up-river end of
the island and headed for the finish.
“It’s Billings,” said Dick in disappointed tones. But ere the words
were out of his mouth a second form sped into sight, and a cheer went
up from the watchers. Trevor was apparently but a half dozen yards
behind, and, although as the racers were coming directly toward the
group it was impossible to be certain on that point, seemed to be
gaining at every stride.
Carl slapped Dick boisterously on the shoulder and then hugged him
ecstatically. “Can ’Is ’Ighness skate, Dick? _Can he skate?_”
“Can he!” howled Dick. “Look, he’s even with him; he’s--by Jupiter,
Carl, he’s ahead of him!”
He was; and not only ahead now, but leading by a good three yards.
Every voice was raised in shouts of encouragement, and cries of “Hurry
up, Billings!” “Come on, Nesbitt!” “You can beat him! Brace up!” “Bully
for Hillton!” broke into the frosty air as the two racers, bearing down
swiftly, almost silently, on the finish line, sped nearer and nearer.
Twenty yards away Trevor threw a fleeting glance over his shoulder
at his straining rival, and then, suddenly bending lower over the
leaden-hued surface, fairly left the other standing and shot through
the lane in the crowd and over the line a winner by ten long yards!
[Illustration: A winner by ten yards.]
And how Hillton howled!
“Even old ‘Turkey’ couldn’t beat that!” exulted Carl.
Trevor swung about near shore and skated leisurely back to where
Billings, red-faced and panting, was explaining to French and the rest
of the St. Eustace team how it happened. But his friends looked utterly
bored at his narrative, and turned away one by one toward the landing
steps. Trevor came to a stop a yard in front of the tall, freckle-faced
youth, who paused in his explanation and regarded him angrily. The
crowd hushed its chatter in delighted anticipation. Trevor thrust his
hands under his sweater and regarded Billings with a wealth of genial
condescension.
“Any time you’d like to learn more about skating,” he remarked sweetly,
“come up. I’m always at leisure Saturday afternoons.”
Then he nodded amiably and skated away ere the outraged Billings could
summon his scattered wits to the rescue of his equally scattered
dignity.
CHAPTER X
BUYING AN ICE-YACHT
“An ice-yacht,” observed Carl learnedly, “is the nearest approach at
the present age to a flying-machine.”
“And I never cared a bit about flying,” answered Dick, without
enthusiasm.
The two, with Trevor and Stewart Earle, were gathered close about the
fireplace in Number 16 Masters. Two good hickory logs were crackling
merrily, and, although owing to the fact that the steam-heating
apparatus was evidently on a strike and their backs were constantly
caressed by shivers, their knees and faces were radiantly warm; and
that was sufficient comfort. A huge paper bag was perched on the table,
and the quartet were busily munching big, rosy apples, while close to
the ashes four more were sizzling and sputtering in the heat. They had
started out with the intention of having a feast of roasted apples, but
had found that the roasting process was too slow to meet the demands of
their appetites, and so were keeping down the pangs of starvation in
the interims by consuming the fruit as Nature had meant they should.
“An ice-yacht,” continued Carl, undismayed, “can be put together very
easily and cheaply. All you have to have is four pieces of timber
and----”
“Look here, Carl,” interrupted Dick impolitely, “the last thing you
made was a toboggan, and it cost about nine dollars before you were
through with it, and you could have bought a _good_ one for five.”
Stewart giggled and Carl grinned good-naturedly.
“Well, let’s buy one, then,” he replied. “Let’s go down to Euston Point
and see the one this fellow advertises.”
“How much do they cost?” asked Trevor.
“Oh, we could get a second-hand one for fifteen dollars, easy; maybe
less. That would be only four dollars apiece, if we all went in. And we
could have the biggest kind of fun! Why, some ice-yachts go as fast as
ninety miles an hour!”
“Oh, get out!”
“They do; don’t they, Stew?”
“Easy,” answered Stewart gravely. “I’ve seen lots of them do it. I
owned one myself once that could go a hundred and thirty-seven miles
in----”
“Shut up, you idiot!” growled Carl. “What do you say, fellows; shall
we see if we can get the boat? Think how jolly grouchy the other chaps
would be to see us skipping around and----”
“And breaking our necks,” suggested Trevor.
“Nothing of the sort! Why, it’s not dangerous at all; any one that
knows anything about sailing a yacht can manage an ice-boat.”
“Well, who knows anything about sailing among this crowd? Do you,
Trevor?”
Trevor shook his head.
“Not a thing.”
“_I_ do, of course,” interrupted Carl.
“Well,” said Stewart, “as far as I’m concerned I think I’d rather have
some one else than you do it, Carl.”
“Oh, quit fooling; I’m in earnest. Suppose we go to Euston Point next
Saturday and see what’s doing?”
“But, look here,” said Dick, “how do you know Faculty will let us sail
the thing if we get it?”
“Why shouldn’t they? They allow skating; ice-yachting’s just
skating--with a difference. Besides, as long as there’s no rule against
it we have a right to do it.”
This argument was incontrovertible, and it was agreed that the four
should journey to the near-by village of Euston Point the following
Saturday morning. And then Stewart suddenly discovered that the apples
on the hearth had been done for some time, and in the business that
followed the subject of ice-yachting was forgotten.
When Dick and Trevor returned from supper that evening they found a
fresh, inky-smelling number of The Hilltonian awaiting them in the
letter-box. Dick hurried to the room with it and spread it out under
the light on the table. Yes, Singer had been as good as his word; the
leading editorial was headed The Rowing Situation, and was quite in
Singer’s best style.
“My!” ejaculated Trevor, who had been reading the article over Dick’s
shoulder, “that’s spiffin!”
“It sounds rather well, doesn’t it?” asked Dick, highly gratified by
the effusion. “And you’d think it would bring some of the fellows
round, eh?”
“Bound to; you’ll find slathers of them in the gym to-morrow
afternoon,” replied Trevor confidently. “Read it out loud, Hope.”
And Dick did so and Trevor listened admiringly and interpolated an
applauding “Hear, hear!” at intervals, and Dick went to bed very
hopeful of the morrow.
But when at three o’clock the following afternoon he repaired to
the rowing-room his heart sank. Aside from the original nineteen
candidates, but the veriest handful were present. Dick counted them
grimly; there were fourteen of them, and for the most part they not
only looked but really were sadly out of their element. A small junior
of perhaps fourteen tried to hide himself in a corner, but Dick routed
him out mercilessly and asked him cruelly if he was a candidate for
coxswain.
“Yes--no--that is, I don’t know,” was the breathless reply. Dick turned
away and encountered the mocking gaze of Taylor, who, when Dick’s eyes
were turned upon him, smoothed his features into an expression of
respectful concern and walked forward.
“What an outfit, eh?” he asked softly. But Dick was resolved that the
other should not have the satisfaction of knowing his disappointment.
He shrugged his shoulders and smiled carelessly.
“Well, they don’t look brilliant; a bit light on an average; but I
dare say we’ll be able to find some good material in the lot.” At that
moment Professor Beck entered. After a slow and careful glance up and
down the long room he looked fleetingly at Dick, frowned, and turned
away. But he made no remarks upon the showing of candidates save once.
“Mr. Kirk will coach the crews again this year,” he announced, “and
will be with you every Saturday afternoon until the river opens, when,
as last year, he will come up to Hillton and stay with you until the
race. I expect he will make his first visit a week from next Saturday,
and I’m sure”--he glanced blandly over the audience--“I’m sure he will
be greatly pleased with the material he will find.”
Something approaching a shudder passed over the throng, and Dick turned
aside to hide a grim smile. Then the first batch of candidates trooped
off to the locker room to don gymnasium attire, and the new recruits
were registered, instructed to report for examination the following
afternoon, and dismissed looking heartily relieved. When the last one
had gone Professor Beck heaved a sigh and turned to Dick.
“Hope, are you certain there was no mistake made? You’re sure you
didn’t issue a call for candidates for a tiddledy-winks team?” Dick
smiled dismally.
“No, there’s no such luck. We’ve got thirty-four fellows, of which a
possible two dozen are rowing material.”
“Hum; I think we shall be able to turn out an excellent second eight,
but as for a varsity crew--do you happen to have an idea as to where we
are going to get that, Hope?”
“No, sir, I haven’t,” replied Dick miserably. Professor Beck polished
his glasses thoughtfully for a minute and studied the wintry landscape
through the high window. Then he smiled, settled the shining lenses
again on his nose, and turned toward the door.
“We’ll have to use our wits, Hope. Above all, don’t allow yourself
to become discouraged. We still have a couple of weeks before us,
and--well, I guess we can accomplish something in that time. Are you
ready?”
Together they passed out onto the floor and in a few minutes the first
squad of crew candidates had begun their training. Of the twenty,
two had rowed in the varsity boat of the preceding year, four had
rowed with the second eight, three had trained as substitutes, and
the balance, eleven candidates, represented new and inexperienced
material as far as shell-rowing was concerned. Well-nigh all were what
Trevor would have termed “wetbobs,” and had paddled about in tubs or
perhaps rowed now and then in a pair-oar. Professor Beck and Dick were
busy for the half hour that constituted the first day’s exercising.
Generally speaking, each candidate required a different work from his
neighbors. In Brown the forearm muscles were undeveloped; in Smith the
chest muscles had been neglected; in Jones the back was as unbending
as a two-inch plank, while Robinson, perchance, was in a state of
general flabbiness. The professor viewed attentively the work of
each boy, altered the exercise here, stopped it there, increased it
elsewhere, while Dick stood beside him, listening to his instructions
and memorizing, as pointed out to him, the needs of the different
ones. After awhile the fellows were sent to the track for the briefest
of trots, and so, having stood for an instant under a shower-bath,
dressed, and went their ways full-fledged crew candidates, with an
inalienable right to look down condescendingly upon their schoolmates,
to cut Friday night lectures, and comport themselves generally in the
manner of coming heroes.
And Dick, with Trevor at his side, went back to his room for an hour
of study before supper, not overjoyful, but yet somewhat comforted by
the professor’s hopefulness and by the fact that real work had at last
commenced.
On Friday night Professor Beck announced to Dick that the fourteen
newer candidates had been examined, and in five instances found
wanting. “Of those that remain,” said the professor, “two look like
good men; as for the rest----” He shrugged his shoulders eloquently.
“But we can tell better in a week or two. Meanwhile, we must keep up
the recruiting. I have my eye on an upper middle boy, and I think I’ll
have him hooked in a day or two. If we can secure say another half
dozen good men I think we can pull out all right.”
The next morning--it being a bright and sunny Saturday toward the last
of January--Dick, Trevor, Carl, and Stewart boarded the train and
traveled to Euston Point, but a few miles distant, where they called
on the man whose advertisement Carl had read in a local paper, and by
him were conducted to a loft by the river, where a dilapidated-looking
triangle of timbers and bolts--which its owner declared loudly was
the fastest cat-rigged yacht on the Hudson--was shown to them. The
bargain was soon closed, Carl conducting the negotiations and talking
learnedly of runner planks, center timbers, and stays. The boat was to
be supplied with a new rudder-post, a new sail and rigging, the runners
were to be reground, and the whole was to be delivered at the boat
landing at Hillton Academy four days from that date for the munificent
sum of seventeen dollars and seventy-five cents. Carl was elated.
“We’ve saved two dollars and a quarter,” he declared.
“I don’t see how,” objected Dick. “You told us last week that we could
get the thing for fifteen dollars.”
“I know I did; that’s what I thought. But you heard him ask twenty
at first, didn’t you? Well, and I jewed him down to seventeen
seventy-five. Isn’t that two and a quarter saved?”
Dick had to acknowledge that it was, and Carl insisted on celebrating
his successful financiering by treating to very nasty hot soda at the
town’s only drug store. And so to Carl’s business acumen may be traced
the series of events that led shortly to Trevor’s disgrace.
Their way to the station took them past the open door of a livery
stable. When they were abreast of it something round and white shot
out, rolled over and over down the little incline, and brought up at
Trevor’s feet. It proved to be a young puppy, which, when it stopped
rolling, found its four unsteady feet, barked joyously, and tried to
gnaw the buttons from Trevor’s trouser cuffs. But he was instantly
seized upon and elevated in Trevor’s arms for the inspection of the
others.
“Isn’t he a little beauty?” cried Trevor.
“Yes; what is he, a fox terrier?” asked Stewart, allowing the squirming
and delighted puppy to chew his gloved fingers to its heart’s content.
“Fox terrier!” replied Trevor scathingly. “Of course not; it’s a bull.
Look at that nose!”
“I am looking at it,” answered Dick. “Nice and ugly, isn’t it? What
makes it so pink?”
“That’s the way it ought to be,” answered Trevor with fine disdain for
his friend’s ignorance. “I wonder who it belongs to?”
“Belongs right here, sir!” The boys glanced around and found a colored
stableman observing them smilingly from the doorway. Trevor placed the
puppy upon the ground, where it at once relapsed into a state of loud
and poignant grief, leaping with snowy feet against his stockings, and
crying vehemently to be again taken up. Trevor patted it, whereupon its
grief gave place to uncontrollable delight; it stood on its hind legs,
buried its short nose in a small snow-bank, and attempted to take the
boy’s entire hand into its pink mouth, and all within the instant.
“It’s the liveliest pup I ever saw,” said Carl.
“That’s a fine dog, sir,” said the owner. “His mother took a first and
two second prizes at the dog show last week, and his father’s got lots
of ’em. Yes, siree, he’s a mighty fine dog, he is.”
“Come on,” said Dick, “we’ll lose the train if we’re not careful.”
But Trevor paid no heed. He was looking intently at the puppy, which,
with the boy’s left thumb between his teeth, was radiantly happy.
“He’s got a pedigree as long as yer arm,” continued the stableman.
“Has he?” muttered Trevor.
“He can be registered ter-morrer, he can; he’s blue-blooded right
through, he is.”
“Is he?” said Trevor. The puppy was now on its back, legs limply aloft,
and Trevor was thoughtfully rubbing a pink-and-white stomach.
“Was you wanting to buy a dog, sir?”
“N-no, I think not,” answered Trevor.
“Say, come on, Nesbitt, or we’ll be late,” cried Carl.
The stableman glanced over his shoulder. “Lots of time, gentlemen;
train ain’t due for twelve minutes yet.” Then, addressing Trevor, “I
had four of them and sold ’em all ’cept this one; an’ he’s the best of
the lot; an’ cheap, too--dirt cheap.”
“How much?” asked Trevor with elaborate carelessness.
“You can have him for five dollars.”
“Phew!” said Stewart.
“Give you fifty cents,” said Carl. The stableman turned indignantly.
“I reckon you don’t know much about what bulldogs is worth,” he said.
“This gentleman here knows that that ain’t too much for a puppy as fine
as that one; don’t you, sir?”
“I dare say he’s worth that much,” answered Trevor, “but I couldn’t pay
it.”
“What would you do with it if you had it?” asked Dick.
“Now, look here; I’ll tell you what I’ll do, sir,” said the stableman.
“You can have him for three dollars and a half. And that’s mighty
cheap, that is.”
Trevor looked longingly at the puppy, who was now for the moment
quiescent, and who was gazing up into Trevor’s face as though
breathlessly awaiting his verdict.
“I--I’ll give you a dollar to-day and pay you the rest next Saturday,”
he said finally.
“You one of the Hillton young gentlemen?” asked the stableman.
“Yes.”
“Well, you can take him along. What’s your name?”
Trevor gave it amid the expostulations of his friends, who asked
wonderingly where he expected to keep his new possession, how long he
thought Faculty would let him have it, and how he was going to get it
home. To all of which Trevor made no reply. Paying the man the first
instalment of the money, he seized upon the delighted puppy and strode
off, fearful lest the former owner should regret the bargain and change
his mind.
“Well, of all things!” ejaculated Dick. “Where in thunder will you keep
him?”
“Don’t you worry,” answered Trevor. “I’ll find a place.”
“What’s troubling me,” complained Carl, “is how you’re going to pay
your four dollars and forty-four cents toward the yacht and the three
dollars and a half for the pup.”
Trevor looked blank.
“I’d forgotten about the yacht,” he muttered.
“Forgotten about it!” cried Carl. “Why, man alive, we just bought it
ten minutes ago!”
“I know. But--I tell you--I’ll write to the pater; I fancy he’ll send
me money enough for the puppy; he always gives me any money I may need
for useful things.”
The others exploded into violent laughter.
“Call that useful?” gurgled Dick, holding his sides and pointing
derisively at the puppy, which lay limp but blissful with half-closed
eyes in Trevor’s arms. A warning whistle made unnecessary any reply,
and the four boys hurried toward the station.
“You’d better hide him under your coat, or else they’ll make you
ride in the baggage car with him,” cautioned Dick. And so Trevor
boarded the train with a suspicious portliness, happily unobserved
of the conductor, and, when they had yielded their tickets, drew the
uncomplaining puppy from under his sweater.
“I’ll say one thing for it,” remarked Carl grudgingly, “it behaves
mighty well, considering that it has just been torn from home and
parents.” He held out a hand and the puppy went into spasms of delight
over the evidence of friendship and licked the fingers deliriously.
“Funny little beggar! How old is it, Trevor?”
“About ten weeks, I fancy.”
“What are you going to call him?” asked Stewart.
Trevor shook his head thoughtfully.
“I don’t know yet. I shall wait until I find something appropriate.”
“Talking about names,” said Carl, “let’s find one for the boat. That
fellow said she was the Lucy G., but that’s silly and doesn’t mean
anything.”
“Ought to be something wintry,” suggested Stewart.
“Something like Blizzard, or Snowflake, or Ice King,” added Dick.
“It can’t be any of those,” objected Carl, “because there are heaps of
Blizzards and the other things you said. How would The Polar Bear do?”
Every one sniffed derisively.
“Well,” said Trevor, “if it must be something wintry, what’s the matter
with The Ulster or The Cough Drop?”
“Or The Chilblain?” laughed Dick.
“I think a good name would be The Sleet,” Stewart struck in. “That’s
wintry enough.”
A vote was taken, and The Sleet carried.
“We can have a sail next Saturday,” suggested Carl.
“So soon?” groaned Dick. “Carl, we’re so young to die!”
“That’s all right, my funny friend, but just you wait until I get to
sailing that thing; you’ll see!”
And Carl’s prediction, though vague, proved in a measure correct.
CHAPTER XI
ADVENTURES OF A BULL PUP
Trevor smuggled the puppy into his room undetected, against Dick’s
advice.
“If Faculty finds it out you’ll not only lose the animal, but get into
trouble. And they’re bound to learn of it before long. Why, the ‘goody’
will see the thing when she makes the beds.”
“No, she won’t; I’ll find a way to fix that,” answered Trevor
confidently.
“But how’ll you keep him alive?” asked Dick. “The poor little thing has
got to eat.”
“Oh, I can bring him something from dining-hall.”
Dick shrugged his shoulders and gave up the argument. And having
relieved his conscience by his protest, joined his roommate in teaching
the puppy to sit on his hind legs and hold a piece of cracker on
his nose: a feat which the animal could not for a long time see the
philosophy of. When, however, he discovered that obedience invariably
gave him possession of the fragment of biscuit to crumble to his
heart’s content over the hearth-rug, he began to understand the game,
and to even show a certain pleasure in it. After the work in the
gymnasium that afternoon Trevor and Dick walked to the village and the
former purchased--I regret to say on credit, thereby infringing one of
the rules--a red leather collar and a steel chain. When Trevor left
the dining-hall after supper his coat pockets bulged suspiciously, and
later the puppy feasted regally on cold roast beef and graham bread,
while the two boys watched every mouthful with delight. When bedtime
came Trevor arranged a pair of old tennis trousers by the hearth, and
placing the puppy thereon, assured him sternly that he was expected to
remain there quietly until morning.
Perhaps Trevor’s commands were not altogether clear. That as may be,
he had no sooner put out the light and snuggled himself into bed
than there arose a sound of grief and dismay in the study, followed
presently by tiny footfalls on the bedroom floor.
“Lie down!” commanded Trevor sternly.
The whining ceased for a minute, and a tail thumped the floor
delightedly. And then, as no further recognition seemed forthcoming,
the whining began again in increased volume and with added pathos.
“Puppy, go lie down,” whispered Trevor, more mildly this time. Dick was
laughing silently beyond in the darkness. The puppy again thumped the
floor with his tail.
“Perhaps he’s cold,” suggested Dick.
“The poor little fellow wants to get up on the bed, I fancy,” answered
Trevor. “I’ll spread my dressing-gown for him at the foot.” This was
done, and the disturbing element was hauled to the bed by the nape
of his neck. But stay on the dressing-gown he would not, and Trevor
finally fell asleep with the small, warm bundle of dog lying against
his breast, and a tiny, bullet-shaped head resting peacefully on his
neck.
The real troubles began next morning. When the two boys started for
breakfast they locked the door carefully, and had reached the stairs,
when, faint but unmistakable as to character, came a long howl of
grief. Fearfully, Trevor hurried back. The puppy was sitting erect
and tragic just inside the door. His delight at Trevor’s return was,
however, short-lived, for he was ignominiously shut in the closet, and
Trevor, with the key in his pocket, again set forth. But he could find
little enjoyment in breakfast, for all the while he was haunted by the
fear that the “goody” would get into the room before he could return,
hear the dog’s howls, and report the matter to Professor Tomkins,
the resident instructor. He hurried back to Masters with his meal
but half eaten, and breathed a sigh of relief when he found the beds
still unmade and the room still untidied. From the closet came eager,
questioning sniffs and whines of impatience. Trevor opened the door,
tossed in a mutton chop, and quickly secured it again. And then the
study door opened and the “goody” entered.
“Good-morning, Mr. Nesbitt.”
“Good-morning, Mrs. Pratt.”
Trevor seized a Latin book, subsided into a chair by the closet
and tried to read. From behind the locked door came sounds of busy
gnawings; once a diminutive growl was audible. But the “goody” was
in the other room and so all was safe. Trevor discovered that he was
holding the book upside down; he corrected the mistake and wondered why
it was that the beds took so long to make this morning of all others.
They were finally completed, however, and the crucial moment arrived.
Armed with dust-cloth, the woman came out and slowly began to move
about the study. Suddenly from behind the locked door came two distinct
taps; it was only the puppy worrying the mutton bone, but the “goody”
didn’t know that, and looked in alarm toward the closet.
“What was that?” she asked.
“What was what?” asked Trevor.
“That sound; them sounds--in there?”
“Pshaw, you’re dreaming; there--there’s no one in----”
Something bumped softly against the door; the woman glanced suspiciously
from Trevor to the closet. Trevor looked carelessly out the window and
began to whistle. A low whine issued from the prison. Trevor heard it,
but apparently the “goody” didn’t; he whistled louder. The whining
increased. Trevor began to sing.
Then began a most appalling series of bumps, growls, knocks, whines,
jars, gnawings, and similar disturbing noises from the closet. With
loudly thumping heart Trevor sang on, rapidly, loudly, unceasingly. The
woman turned and viewed him in astonishment not unmixed with alarm.
Trevor’s singing was more creditable from the point of vigor and
whole-souledness than on the score of harmony or rhythm. His notes were
nearly all flats, which, with the fact that he never for an instant
varied the time, made even the most joyous of ballads lugubrious when
performed by him. He had finished In the Gloaming, Way down upon
the Suwanee River, and Rule, Britannia, and was now breathlessly,
heroically thundering forth Hilltonians in tones that could be, and
probably were, heard in the next dormitory:
“Hilltonians, Hilltonians, your crimson banner fling”
(Bang! Bump! Gr-r-r-r!)
“Unto the breeze, and ’neath its folds your anthem loudly sing!”
(Whack! Bang! Bump!)
“Hilltonians, Hilltonians, our loyalty we’ll prove
Beneath the flag, the crimson flag, the bonny flag we love!”
(Gr-r-r-r! Ao-o-oow! Ao-o-o-ow! Bang!)
And then, with her hands over her ears and her dust-cloth trailing in
defeat, the “goody” fled from the room, and the day was won! Trevor
sank back exhausted. From the closet the strange sounds continued to
issue. He sat up and stared fearfully at the closed door. What, he
asked himself with sinking heart, what could they mean? He drew forth
the key, crossed the room, unlocked the door, threw it open, and--
Out tumbled the puppy and--and--could it be? It could; it was!--one of
Dick’s immaculate patent-leather pumps, torn and chewed into as sorry a
looking object as he had ever seen!
At sight of Trevor the puppy dropped his prize, put his small head on
one side, wagged his tail proudly, and gazed up at his master as though
asking “How’s that for a good job well done?”
Trevor peered into the closet and groaned. The floor was a mass of
_débris_; shoes and garments from the hooks were writhed together
madly; and everywhere was set the puppy’s mark of approval. Trevor
gathered up the garments and returned them to their hooks. A cold,
blunt nose thrust itself into the way. Trevor’s hand rose and fell
smartly twice, and with a yelp the puppy retreated to the hearth-rug,
where he turned and barked defiance.
Trevor observed him wrathfully for an instant, but his attitude
of insulted dignity and his ferocious challenge to combat were so
ludicrous that the boy subsided amid the wreckage and laughed until
the tears came. And the puppy, bounding joyfully upon him, instantly
forgiving, gurgled his pleasure and licked his hands, shoes, and face
with whole-souled impartiality.
And upon this scene entered Dick!
Let us draw the curtain.
That night, long after Dick had dropped off to slumber, he was awakened
by Trevor’s urgent voice.
“Dick! Dick! Wake up!”
“Wha-what’s the matter?” cried Dick, starting suddenly from sleep, and
sitting up in bed with confused visions of fire and flood.
“I’ve found a name for him,” answered Trevor triumphantly.
“Name? What name? Who’s name?”
“The puppy’s. I’m going to call him Muggins!”
Dick snorted wrathfully and went back to sleep.
Trevor fondled the slumberous puppy. “Isn’t he an unfeeling brute,
Muggins?” he whispered. And Muggins thumped his tail affirmatively,
sleepily.
The following night, when all was silent in the dormitory, a form
bundled against the weather in a greatcoat, and followed by a second
form, vastly smaller in outline and wearing only the coat that nature
had provided him with, might have been seen--but were not--tiptoeing
from study No. 16 and descending the creaking stairs. The door was
locked, but the key was there, and in a moment the two forms had
vanished into outer darkness and the portal had closed again.
As the discerning reader has no doubt already surmised, the mysterious
forms were those of Trevor and Muggins.
Trevor had concluded that Muggins’s health demanded more exercise
than his puppyship was getting, and so on the preceding night and
again to-night Muggins, at the end of the steel chain, had been
surreptitiously conveyed from the building for a stroll about the yard.
It was bitterly cold and Trevor shivered as he ambled slowly toward
the gymnasium followed by the dog; but since Muggins’s health demanded
exercise Muggins should have it, though the thermometer stood at miles
below zero, which luckily it didn’t to-night. Around the gymnasium
plodded Trevor, slipping, sliding on the icy walks; around trotted
Muggins, sniffing, shivering in the nipping wind. Then down the path by
Bradley to Turner, around the corner of Turner, and----
Alas, tragedy was in the air that night!
Trevor paused, listening. Footsteps sounded loudly, frostily at a
little distance, and in the darkness a dim form loomed up from the
direction of the gate. It was but the work of an instant to slink into
the recess of the building made by the protruding entrance, and to pull
Muggins after him. The footsteps drew nearer. One of the professors
returning late from the village, Trevor told himself. The form came
abreast of him, a scant two yards distant, and was almost past his
hiding-place when Muggins awoke to the demands of the occasion.
Muggins, despite his tender age, was valor to the tip of his wagging
tail. He heard strange footsteps; he saw a strange form; he feared
an attack on his master. But, what ho! was not he, Muggins, there?
Certainly! And--
Away went the chain from Trevor’s numbed fingers; away went Muggins,
dashing to the fray like a knight of old!
“_Bow! Bow-wow!_” challenged Muggins.
Trevor heard an ejaculation of alarmed surprise, saw the form of the
tall professor jump back, and then--then there was a crash, and Trevor,
seizing the opportunity, was off like the wind, and had gained the
doorway of Masters Hall ere the astonished professor had regained his
feet. For Muggins in his excess of valor had got his small body between
his adversary’s legs, and great and sudden was the fall. Trevor waited
long at the entrance of Masters Hall, standing with door ajar and
peering anxiously into the darkness; once even venturing upon a subdued
whistle and a yearning “Muggins, Muggins!” But his appeals were vain,
and after a while he crept dejectedly upstairs and back into his cold
and Muggins-less bed, wondering, sorrowful, fearful of the morrow.
CHAPTER XII
MUGGINS IS EXPELLED
Dick learned the story the next morning while the boys were dressing,
and, to Trevor’s pained surprise, subsided onto the hearth-rug, where
he sprawled at length, and gave way to heartless mirth.
“Oh, I dare say _you_ don’t care,” said Trevor with wounded dignity.
“He wasn’t _your_ dog. If he had been”--savagely--“I dare say _I_
should have laughed!” Dick stopped rolling and sat up against the
wood-box.
“But--but, don’t you see, Trevor,” he gurgled, “I’m--I’m not laughing
because you’ve lost Buggins----”
“Muggins,” corrected Trevor coldly.
“I--I mean Muggins. I’m awfully sorry about that, honest injun!
But--but think of Longworth--it must have been Longworth, you
see--think of him rolling over there on the ice, all tangled up with
Bug--Muggins and the chain! Oh, jiminy!” And Dick went off into another
spasm of laughter.
Trevor stared thoughtfully into the flames, trying to summon up the
picture that appeared so delightful to his roommate. After a moment he
smiled faintly.
“Yes, I see; yes, I fancy it was comical. But--but wasn’t it awfully
brave of Muggins?”
“Awfully,” answered Dick with emphasis as he sat up again, dried his
eyes with a towel, and proceeded with his dressing. “Perhaps you’ll
find him again.”
But Trevor shook his head sadly.
“No chance of that. Poor Muggins!”
After chapel that morning Professor Wheeler, the principal, arose.
“One of the professors while returning through the yard late last
evening came across a--a young dog wearing a collar and chain. There
are reasons to believe that the animal belongs to one of you, as the
professor caught sight of a boy running toward a dormitory.”
A murmur of surprise, amusement, and excitement traveled through the
hall. Boys studied each other’s faces questioningly. “He saw you after
all!” whispered Dick. “I don’t see how he could,” whispered Trevor.
“There is a rule,” continued the principal, “forbidding the keeping of
dogs, or any sort of animals, in the academy buildings.” He paused, and
then added grimly: “I will ask the owner of the animal to stand up.”
There was a flutter of excitement; heads turned expectantly for sight
of the unlucky youth. Silence reigned save for the whisperings of the
boys. But no one arose. The principal waited calmly, patiently, for
several minutes.
“Very well,” he said then. “I want every resident of Masters Hall to
come to my office at a quarter of nine, prompt.” He moved down the
steps and the boys flocked from their seats and hurried out of chapel,
laughing, whispering in the throes of a new sensation. Trevor groaned
as he arose.
“I fancy it would have been better if I’d ’fessed up,” he said to Dick.
“Perhaps he’d have let me off easier. What do you think?”
“Blessed if I know. Anyhow, there’s no harm done so far; you have a
right to refuse to incriminate yourself. Only what he wants us at
the office for I can’t see, unless he’s going to ask each one of us
separately. In that case it’s all up with you.”
“In that case I’ll own up, of course,” said Trevor. “But it’s
rather tough getting into another fuss just when I’ve got over that
stage-coach business. Maybe it’ll be probation this time.”
“Oh, I guess not,” answered Dick as they crossed the dining-hall. “And
it isn’t like Wheels to ask the fellows to tell on each other; and
that’s why I can’t understand this office business.”
At the appointed time forty-two youths of various ages and sizes
crowded into the principal’s office in Academy Building. The office
consists in reality of two rooms, an outer and an inner apartment, the
first used by the secretary, the second sacred to Professor Wheeler.
The outer room was crowded when the principal entered, and a gasp of
surprise went up when it was seen that under one arm he carried a
small, wriggling, greatly excited bull puppy, which strove earnestly
to reach his face with an eager pink tongue. The principal appeared to
appreciate the humor of his entrance, for there was a slight twitch
at the corners of his mouth, as though he would have liked to smile.
At sight of Muggins Trevor started and made as though to move forward
and claim his property, but Dick laid a warning hand on his arm, and
he kept his place and watched professor and dog disappear into the
inner office. The forty-two youths--or to be strictly truthful--forty
of them--gazed wonderingly into each other’s faces while titters of
suppressed laughter ran up and down the ranks. Then the principal came
out again still with the squirming puppy in his arms, and the titters
died away abruptly.
“Are we all here?” he asked. “Supposing you form into, say, three
lines across the room here; that’s it; now I can count you. Exactly;
forty-two; a full attendance, I see. Kindly give me your attention for
a moment.” He held up the puppy, a squirming white mass of legs, tail,
and pink tongue. “I have here, as you see, a young dog, of just what
breed, age, and previous condition of servitude I am in doubt. But it
has, as you will observe, a collar of Hillton crimson and a strong
steel chain; possibly we shall be able to identify it by those. Now the
owner, or at least the companion at a late hour last night, of this
animal is known to room in your dormitory. I have called you together
here in order that he may claim his property. I will ask him to do so.”
Each boy viewed his neighbor suspiciously, but none said a word. As
before, the principal waited calmly, patiently, for several moments.
Then:
“Very well. You will perhaps recollect the saying in regard to Mahomet
and the mountain. The mountain having refused to go to Mahomet, Mahomet
very sensibly decided to go to the mountain. In this case, as the owner
refuses to go to the dog, we will see if the dog will go to the owner.”
Professor deposited the puppy on the floor. Forty-two--or, to be
again truthful, forty--youths viewed the animal with apprehension. It
was all very clever, of course, and no doubt had a flavor of humor,
but--but supposing that silly dog got it into his head that _they_
were his owner! How could they prove that they weren’t? How produce a
satisfactory _alibi_? They stirred uneasily, and frowned at the puppy.
The puppy, meanwhile, sat down and industriously scratched his neck.
But after that a spirit of adventure seized him, and he cast an
inquiring glance over the breathless assembly. Then he moved forward
and sniffed tentatively at the damp boots of Todd, who stood in the
middle of the front line. Todd held his breath and turned pale. But
Muggins evidently didn’t fancy wet leather, for he moved off down
the line, sniffing here and there, but without enthusiasm. Once he
paused and cocked an interrogatory brown eye up at Williams. And it was
Williams’s turn to wish himself away. He frowned darkly, threateningly,
and Muggins, scenting animosity, turned tail. Williams heaved a sigh of
relief.
Muggins now crawled laboriously between the feet of the next youth,
and found himself confronted by a second rank of motionless, silent,
and unsympathetic persons. He began to feel nervous. He stopped and,
pointing his blunt nose toward heaven, howled long and dismally. Some
one laughed, and the spell of terror was broken. Even Professor Wheeler
smiled, while Muggins, delighted at the evidence of companionship,
wagged his tail and began his search anew. Dick and Trevor stood, backs
to the wall, in the last of the three lines. Trevor watched the puppy,
scowling ferociously. The suspense was awful. He never for an instant
doubted that sooner or later Nemesis in the shape of Muggins would find
him out. Meanwhile he frowned, clenched his fists, and waited for his
doom. His doom when it came came speedily.
Muggins had apparently lost interest in the proceedings, and had begun
to whine softly, when suddenly he stopped dead short, and putting his
head aloft, twitched the wrinkled end of his pink nose and sniffed
suspiciously. One ear went up at an animated angle, and he put his
little bullet-shaped head on one side. Professor Wheeler moved softly
forward to a point where he could better watch events, and Trevor,
after one annihilating glance at the puppy, stared straight before
him. Muggins squirmed through the second rank, showing signs of strong
excitement. And then--
Then there was a yelp of triumph, of delight, and Muggins was leaping
deliriously at Trevor, giving vent to his joy in short explosive barks
and gurgling yelps.
“I won’t keep you any longer,” said the principal. “If any of you are
late at recitations, you may explain that it was my fault. I will ask
Nesbitt to remain for a few minutes.”
And with grins of relief and amusement the forty-one boys crowded
forth, leaving Trevor standing there alone, very red in the face, and
with the puppy clasped close in his arms. Then the principal and Trevor
and Muggins adjourned to the inner room. And there, while Muggins lay
curled contentedly against the boy’s breast--simply because he couldn’t
be induced to stay anywhere else--Trevor, rather haltingly, explained.
“And you had the dog in your study ever since Saturday?”
“Yes, sir.”
“But how--I can’t understand why no one discovered it. Didn’t the
‘goody’ see it there?”
“No, sir.” And Trevor explained his manner of keeping that worthy
person in ignorance. And once or twice during the recital, although
Trevor really didn’t do the narrative half justice, the professor
concealed his smiles with difficulty. And then, when there was nothing
more to be said on Trevor’s side, the principal sat silent for several
moments, gazing out of the window. And Trevor took heart.
“Well, the whole case seems to have been one of sudden infatuation
between a boy and a dog,” said Professor Wheeler at last, “rather than
a preconceived plan to create mischief or transgress the rules. Under
the circumstances---- But, of course, you understand that the dog can
not remain in the grounds?”
“I suppose not, sir.” And the principal smiled at the lad’s dolorous
tones.
“No; now I would suggest that you take him to the village and find
some one there to look after him for you; I think you can do it; you
might try Watson’s stables, back of the Eagle. Then you can see the dog
occasionally, though you must promise never to bring him onto school
grounds.”
“Yes, sir; thank you, sir.”
“And I think that that will be punishment enough for the case. You may
go, Nesbitt. And you may leave the puppy here, if you like, until you
have an opportunity to go to the village.”
“Thank you very much, sir,” answered Trevor gratefully.
“By the way, it’s a bulldog, isn’t it?” asked the principal. “Yes, I
thought so; that head, you know; very intelligent creature, to be sure.”
And then Trevor placed Muggins on the principal’s big leather couch,
with never a doubt but that that was the most appropriate place for
him, and sneaked to the door. And when he hurried down the steps of
Academy Building, shrill and faint came to his ears the wailing of
Muggins.
After dinner, accompanied by Dick, he conveyed the puppy to the village
and arranged for his board and room--the latter a comfortable soap-box
in the office--at Watson’s livery-stable. And after a heartrending
parting the two boys returned to the academy and two o’clock
recitations.
“Do you think he’ll be happy there?” asked Trevor wistfully.
“Sure to be,” Dick assured him. “He’ll be as happy as--as a bull pup!”
The following afternoon Carl Cray burst excitedly into the study, where
the two were deep in the morrow’s lessons.
“It’s come!” he cried triumphantly. “She’s here!”
“Who’s come?” asked Dick blankly.
“What’s here?” echoed Trevor.
“Why, the ice-yacht--The Sleet!”
CHAPTER XIII
THE VOYAGE OF THE SLEET
_The Scene._--The boat-house landing and the river thereabouts.
_The Time._--Four-thirty of the following Saturday afternoon.
_Characters._--Dick, Trevor, Carl, Stewart, an ice-yacht,
chorus of boys on skates.
_Chorus_: “Heave-o! Now, all together! Heave!”
_Carl_: “Hang the thing, anyhow! What’s the matter with it?”
_Dick_: “Well, since you know all about the art of ice-sailing, it
strikes me that you ought to be able to raise a little old pillow-sham
of a sail like that!”
_Trevor_: “Let’s pull on this rope and see what happens.”
_Chorus_: “How’d you like to be the ice-yachtsmen?”
_Carl_: “That’s the rope! Take hold here, fellows!”
_Chorus_: “Everybody shove!”
_Carl_: “There she goes! Make a hitch there, Dick! Jump on, quick!
_Whoa!_”
_Chorus_: “A-ah!”
The boat catches the wind, starts suddenly up-stream, as suddenly
changes its mind, veers about, rams the landing, backs off, charges a
group of boys on skates, and then stands motionless with its head into
the wind and laughs so that its sail flaps.
It is now discovered that there is room on the yacht for but three
fellows at the most, and every one save Carl begs to be allowed to
sacrifice his pleasure and remain at home. The choice falls to Stewart,
and he joins the chorus with a countenance eloquent of relief. Carl,
Dick, and Trevor huddle together on the cockpit, and a portion of the
chorus shoves the yacht’s head about. The sail fills, and the yacht
glides off up-stream in a strong breeze, to the jeers and biting
sarcasms of the chorus, many of whom pretend to weep agonizedly into
their handkerchiefs.
The Sleet had been delivered and paid for the preceding Wednesday. She
was an old-style boat with a length of sixteen feet and a sail area
altogether too small for her size. A new coat of brilliant--and as yet
but partly dried--crimson paint hid a multitude of weak places. The
cockpit, upholstered with a piece of faded red carpet, was barely large
enough to allow the three boys to huddle onto it.
The boat-house and landing, Stewart, and the contemptuous chorus were
soon left behind, and The Sleet gained momentum every second. Carl
held the tiller, and Dick and Trevor held their breaths. The wind was
straight abaft, but the cold made the boys huddle closely together to
protect their faces. The academy buildings faded from sight in the
gray afternoon haze, and the river stretched cold and bleak before them.
“How fast are we going?” asked Dick.
“I don’t know; pretty well, I guess,” answered Carl. “Fine, isn’t it?”
“Yes,” replied Dick, doubtfully. “Only I don’t think we ought to go far
away, you know; eh, Trevor?”
“Oh, let her rip. What’s the difference whether we get killed here or
farther up? Pull open the throttle, Carl!”
“Look out for your heads, then; I’m going to swing her across to the
other side.”
Carl moved the tiller to starboard, and the yacht tacked toward the
farther shore at a truly alarming speed.
“She’s going awful fast, Carl,” gasped Dick.
“Pshaw! this is nothing. If there was only a decent wind----”
“Wow, Carl, she’s keeling over!” yelled Trevor.
The starboard runner was a whole foot above the ice. The sensation was
distinctly unpleasant, and even Carl seemed not to relish it.
“Let’s see,” he muttered. “Oh, yes.” He moved the tiller cautiously,
and the flighty runner settled down upon the surface once more.
“That’s better,” gasped Dick. “Let’s turn here and go back, fellows,”
he suggested with a fine semblance of carelessness. Carl grinned.
“Dick’s scared silly, Trevor,” he shouted.
“Well, so’m I,” answered Trevor. “And so are you, only you won’t let
on. The bally thing goes so fast that it makes you feel funny inside
you. But it _is_ fun, Carl. _Look out for the bank!_”
Over went the tiller again, and the yacht started on the starboard
tack. The hills on either side were flying past, and now and then a
cluster of houses were seen dimly for an instant, and then was lost to
sight.
“What’s that ahead there?” asked Dick. Carl raised his eyes and
followed the other’s gaze.
“Ice-yacht,” he answered. “Perhaps they’ll race us.”
“Perhaps they will,” muttered Trevor, “but if you go any faster when
you race, I’ll get off the blooming thing and walk.”
“Bully boy!” cried Carl. “Feeling better, aren’t you?”
“Well, I fancy I’ve got some of my breath back, you know. But I don’t
mind saying that I’d rather ride on a cyclone than this contrivance.
And my feet are like snowballs!”
“So are mine,” echoed Dick. “And all the rest of me. But let’s ask ’em
to race, Carl.”
The other yacht, which when first sighted had been a long distance up
the river, was now but a short way ahead, and was almost motionless,
nose into the wind, as though awaiting the arrival of The Sleet. While
the latter boat was still an eighth of a mile distant a form sprang
into view on the yacht ahead and a hand waved in challenge. Carl
steadied himself on his knees and waved back.
“We’ll race you!” he bawled.
An answering gesture showed that he had been heard, and the figure
disappeared. In another moment the two yachts were abreast, and
the stranger swung about and took the wind. She had two persons
aboard, a man and a woman, both so wrapped from the weather as to be
scarcely distinguishable. She was a much larger boat than The Sleet,
sloop-rigged, with immaculate white sails and without side-timbers.
She wore no paint, but her woodwork was varnished until it shone.
Altogether there was scarcely any comparison between the two yachts, so
immeasurably superior was the sloop in every detail.
The Sleet meanwhile had gained an eighth of a mile, perhaps, ere the
stranger had found the wind, but now the latter came booming after
them at a spanking gait, her big sails as stiff as though frozen. Carl
grinned.
“It’ll be a mighty short race, my boys. She can sail all around this
little triangle. But we’ll give her a go, just the same.” He brought
The Sleet closer to the wind, and then began a series of long tacks
that sent the boat fairly flying over the ice. But the stranger was
already at the same tactics, and ere a mile had passed was abreast of
The Sleet, though at the other side of the river, and her crew were
waving derisively across.
“Well, if we had as much sail as you have,” growled Carl, “we might be
in your class; as it is, we aren’t. But The Sleet is a good goer, all
the same.”
The other boat stood across into the middle of the river, and then, as
though her former efforts had been but the merest dawdling, bounded
away, and was soon but a small white speck far up the ice in the haze.
“Let’s turn back now,” suggested Dick. “It must be getting toward
half-past five, and you must remember that we won’t be able to make as
fast time going down the river as we have coming up.”
“All right, we’ll turn in a minute.”
And then Carl, whose knowledge of ice-yachting was derived from the
hurried perusal of a library book on the subject, cudgeled his brains
to recollect how to “go about.” Of course, he might lower the sail and
then bring her around, but that would be a most clumsy, unsportsmanlike
method, and so not to be seriously considered. Presumably, the thing to
do was to luff.
“Stand by to luff!” he bawled. Dick and Trevor stared.
“Stand!” cried Trevor indignantly. “Why, I can’t stand, you idiot. It’s
all I can do to hold on as it is!”
“Well, look out for the boom, then. I’m going to bring her about.”
“Who?” asked Trevor innocently. But he got no answer, and the next
instant he had forgotten his question, for Carl had thrust the helm
hard over without first ascertaining that the sheet was clear. It
wasn’t. The result was startling. The wind struck the sail full, and
the yacht swung violently to port, tilted almost onto her beam ends.
Carl and Trevor went rapidly through space and brought up on the ice
yards and yards away, happily uninjured save for minor bruises and
scratches, and The Sleet, righting herself, bounded forward with Dick
clutching desperately, dazedly, at the port runner-beam.
When the shock had come Dick, like the others, had been thrown from
the cockpit, but, by good luck or bad, had encountered the end of the
cross-timber, just over the runner, and had seized it and clung to it
with no very clear idea as to what it was, and not greatly caring. And
now, when he opened his eyes and gazed confusedly about, he found the
yacht ringing merrily over the ice and, judging by the feeling, kicking
up her heels in delight, and found himself wrapped convulsively about
the beam with the wind whistling madly in his ears and blowing his
hair helter-skelter, for in his flight through air his cap and he had
parted company. He cast a look backward and thought that for an instant
he could discern in the gathering darkness two figures. Near at hand
the stays ran to the masthead, and he edged himself toward them until
he could grasp one in his numbed fingers. Then he was able to gain the
support of the mast, somewhat painfully, for he found that his shoulder
ached horribly, and that his lip had been cut and was swelling to
disconcerting size. By means of the boom, which was swinging agitatedly
as though constantly meditating a veer to the other side, he reached
the cockpit, and there, stretched once more at length, he studied the
situation.
Apparently, there was no immediate danger; the yacht was heading fairly
straight up the middle of the river, and although now and then the
stern slid this way or that, she was behaving well. But the imperative
thing was to stop. Dick tried to undo a rope that looked promising, but
his fingers were numb and stiff, despite the woolen gloves that covered
them, and refused to act. He peered ahead into the descending darkness.
The shore to the left was getting rather too near for comfort, and he
seized the tiller, and, half fearful of the result, swung it to the
right, with the startling result that the yacht headed more directly
toward the threatening shore. Desperately he moved the tiller to
the left, and gave a sigh of relief as the boat’s nose swung toward
midstream. Encouraged by his success he presently moved the helm back a
little, and with the yacht’s head pointing a middle course, again tried
to think of some means of bringing his unwelcome voyage to an end. He
knew nothing, practically, of yachting on either water or ice, but
he knew that if he could get the sail down the boat would eventually
stop. Painfully he drew off a glove and sought his pocket-knife. It
was not there. He tried all his pockets with the same disappointing
result. Then he drew his glove back over his deadened hand, and
thought desperately of jumping off and letting The Sleet look after
herself. But the prospect of being dashed across the ice at the risk of
a broken limb didn’t appeal to him; and besides, he felt in a measure
responsible for the safe return of the confounded boat.
“Stand by the ship!” he muttered with an attempt at a grin.
[Illustration: “Stand by the ship!” he muttered.]
The wind seemed now to be decreasing in force, but The Sleet still
charged away into the gathering blackness with breathless speed. At a
loss for any better solution, Dick struggled again at the rope, and it
seemed that success was about to reward his efforts when there was a
sudden jar, followed a second later by a strange sinking sensation, the
sound of breaking ice, and then Dick felt the cockpit being lifted up
and up, and ere he could grasp anything he was rolled over the edge and
plunged downward into icy water.
CHAPTER XIV
DICK TELLS HIS STORY
When Carl and Trevor, bruised and breathless, found their feet and
stared about them, The Sleet was already a whisking gray blot in the
twilight. Trevor obeyed his first impulse and limping up the ice in
the direction of the disappearing boat, called frantically: “Dick!
Dick!” Then, realizing the absurdity of his chase after a thing that
was probably reeling off half a mile every minute or so, he stopped and
came dejectedly back to where Carl was silently rubbing a bruised thigh.
“Dick will be killed!” he cried hoarsely. “What shall we do?”
“Get back to the academy,” said Carl.
“What good will that do?”
“They can telegraph up the river and get some one to look for him. I
wonder how far from Hillton we are?”
“I don’t know,” answered Trevor, “but let’s hurry. Which way shall we
go?”
“Across the river to the railroad track. Maybe, Trevor, there’s a
station between here and Hillton; there ought to be, eh?”
“I don’t know,” sorrowed his companion. “Do you think Dick might have
dropped off after we saw him? Maybe, Carl, he’s lying up there on the
ice somewhere.”
“I don’t believe so. I think Dick will hold on as long as he can.
Perhaps he will manage to get back onto the boat; if he does he ought
to be able to stop her; he knows enough to lower the sail, I guess. I
dare say he’ll turn up all right before long. The best thing for us to
do is to find a telegraph office as soon as we can. Come ahead.”
Somewhat comforted, Trevor limped along and the two gained the river
bank and stumbled through the darkness to the railroad track. Down this
they tramped, silent for the most part, with feet that had no feeling
left in them, and with fingers that ached terribly. How far from the
academy they were neither had any idea; perhaps ten miles, perhaps
less. As for the time, that at least they knew, for Trevor managed
to get his watch out and Carl supplied a match; the hands pointed to
twenty minutes of six.
“We ought to be home by seven,” said Carl with attempted cheerfulness.
Trevor groaned.
A quarter of an hour passed; a half. It was too dark to recognize
anything save the lines of track, which had left the river some
distance to the right. Suddenly a slight turn brought into view a
cluster of lights, white and green.
“A station!” cried Trevor.
The two boys increased their gait and five minutes later passed a
freight train on a siding, and found a little box of a station, ablaze
with light, and oh, how warm! Around a great whitewashed stove in the
middle of the waiting-room sat three men. Two had woolen caps on;
the third was bareheaded, and him the boys rightly judged to be the
station-master. Their story was quickly told, and a moment later the
key at the telegraph desk was ticking off messages to stations up the
line.
“You must have got thrown out at about Whitely Mills,” said one of the
men at the stove. “The boat would have a clear track from there up
to---- I say, Gus,” he called suddenly to the man at the instrument,
“they were cutting ice to-day at the houses just this side of Lorraine.
That would be a bad part of the river to get onto in the dark. You’d
better tell the fellow at Lorraine to send some one down there with a
lantern; what d’ye think, Joe?”
The third man nodded his head. “Bad place; I noticed they were cutting
pretty well out toward the channel.”
“All right,” said the station-master. And the instrument ticked on.
Carl and Trevor sat by the stove and held their feet and hands to
the grateful warmth. They were too tired, too dejected to talk. The
engineer and conductor of the waiting freight eyed them curiously but
kindly. Finally the latter asked:
“How you boys going to get to Hillton?”
“Walk,” answered Carl with a faint smile. “How far is it from here?”
“Twelve miles.”
The two lads looked at each other and groaned.
“Well, I don’t care so much, now that I’ve got thawed out a bit,” said
Trevor. “How far do you think we have walked?”
“I guess it’s about three miles from Whitely here.”
“At that rate,” commented Carl dismally, “it will take us two hours
longer to reach Hillton. And”--he glanced at the station clock--“it’s
now twenty after six; say half-past eight.” The engineer and conductor
were exchanging glances of amusement. Finally the conductor spoke again:
“Well, I guess we can fix it so as you won’t have to walk. The through
freight will be here in seven minutes, and I guess they’ll give you a
lift. If they don’t you can ride down with us, although we won’t get
there much before seven. We’re slow but sure, we are; twenty-eight cars
of coal and a caboose.”
The boys brightened and thanked the railroad men fervently. And then
the station-master left the telegraph instrument and came out into the
waiting-room.
“It’s all right. I’ve put ’em on as far north as Yorkvale, and if
he’s still on the yacht they’ll find him, I guess.” He turned to the
conductor and added in lower tones: “Gregson, at Lorraine, says he’ll
see that a party goes down right away; says he doesn’t believe a yacht
could pass there to-night, as the river hasn’t had time to freeze much
since they quit cutting at about four.”
The conductor nodded. From far off came the long, shrill blast of a
locomotive whistle, and the men drew on their coats, and presently,
followed closely by Carl and Trevor, left the station.
There was a flood of yellow light on the rails to the north, and the
next instant the fast freight thundered by them for half its length,
the brake shoes rasping deafeningly against the wheels. The matter was
soon arranged, and Trevor and Carl found themselves sitting in the
strange little caboose about a tiny stove that was almost red-hot, and
telling their story to two of the train crew. And then, almost before
they knew that they had got well started, the train slowed down, and
they were tumbled out into the snow at the Hillton crossing, and,
shouting their thanks after the scurrying car as it romped off again
into the darkness, they took up the last stage of their journey. But
now, aside from the anxiety they felt as to Dick’s fate, they were
fairly comfortable and contented; and the prospect of supper--for it
seemed to them that never before in the history of the world had two
persons been so hungry--allowed them to view their coming interview
with the principal with something approaching equanimity.
Half an hour later Professor Beck was speeding northward in a buggy
behind the fastest horse in Watson’s stables, and Trevor and Carl,
subdued and anxious, were eating as though their lives depended upon
it in the deserted dining-hall. And afterward Trevor donned his
ridiculous red dressing-gown and sat in front of the study fire for
hours, listening anxiously for sounds on the stairs that would tell of
Dick’s safe return. Sleep, despite his best endeavors, besieged him
constantly, and now and then he dropped off for a minute or two, only
to reawake with a start and rub his smarting eyes confusedly.
“I wish Muggins was here,” he sighed. “It wouldn’t be so lonely.” Then
the clock gathered its hands together at the figure XII, and Trevor
crept sleepily but protestingly to bed and dropped into heavy slumber
the moment his head touched the pillow.
Once--it seemed as though it must be almost daylight--there were
disturbing sounds in the bedroom, and Trevor turned over with a groan,
and, even while he was asking himself what the noise meant, went off to
slumber again. When he awoke in the morning, and the happenings of the
previous evening rushed back to memory, he sat up suddenly with a wild,
anxious look toward the neighboring bed, and a deep sigh of relief and
joy escaped him. For Dick’s tumbled head lay on the pillow, and Dick’s
hearty snores made music in his ears.
In the afternoon the crew of The Sleet, including Stewart, were
gathered about the hearth in Number 16, listening breathlessly to
Dick’s narrative.
“My, but that water was cold!” Dick was saying. “And deep, too. It
seemed as though I never would stop going down. You see, I was so
surprised that I just let myself go, and never thought of struggling
for a long while. When I did, it took me so long to reach the surface
again that I hadn’t any breath left in my body. I got hold of the edge
of the ice and tried to pull myself out, but it was only about half an
inch thick, I guess, and broke right off every time, and down I’d go
again, over my head, maybe. Finally I stopped that and managed to keep
my head out. It was as dark as Egypt by that time, but after awhile I
caught sight of The Sleet just a few yards away, sticking up into the
air like a big triangle. It was on its side with one runner ’way under
the water. Farther off I could make out three black hulks of things
that I concluded were ice-houses, and Professor Beck says that’s what
they were. Of course, when I saw the yacht I knew that I was all right;
all I had to do was to keep on breaking the ice until I reached it. But
I was so plaguy cold, and my teeth were chattering so, and my clothing
was so heavy that it wasn’t very easy after all. But after a while I
found something that wasn’t ice; it was the sail, and it was lying flat
over the water and broken ice. It sagged down with me after I managed
to get onto it, but held me all right, and I crawled along it until I
reached the--the--what do you call it, Carl?”
“Boom?”
“Yes, boom. And then I got onto the mast and leaned against a
plank--the cross-plank, it was--and I was all right, except that I
was almost dead with the cold, and was afraid I’d freeze to death.
So I kept stamping around and throwing my arms about as well as I
could without falling into the water again, and after a while I got
comparatively warmed up. Then--I suppose I’d been there fifteen or
twenty minutes--I began to wonder if I couldn’t get off. You see, I
argued that the yacht would have broken through just as soon as the ice
became thin, and so it seemed to me that there must be thick ice just
back of the boat. But, try as I might, I couldn’t for the life of me
decide which was the back of the silly thing and which the front. And
I was afraid that I’d go plumping into that beastly cold water again.
But after a while I got up my pluck and went to feeling about, letting
myself down here and there, and crawling around. But every time I’d
try to stand on the ice, down I’d go; and so finally I gave it up. But
the climbing about kept me warmed up after a fashion; I dare say I was
as warm as a fellow could be with his clothes sopping wet where they
weren’t frozen stiff. So I crawled back to the mast again and set out
to holler.
“I wish you could have heard me! I yelled in forty different styles.
And when I couldn’t think of anything else I cheered; cheered for
Hilton, cheered for The Sleet, cheered for the ice-houses, and
incidentally, my young friends, cheered myself. And then my voice and
my breath gave out, and I stood still a while and kicked my frozen
feet against the plank and thought about fires and cups of hot coffee
and things to eat until I was nearly crazy. And then I saw some lights
flickering away off in the distance to the right of the ice-houses,
and began yelling again. And that’s about all. There were three fellows
with lanterns and they got a piece of plank or something and took me
off. And what do you think?” he asked disgustedly. “There was thick
ice, half a foot thick, within three feet of me all the time!
“A man who said he was the station-master took me up to a house, and
they gave me some blankets and things and dried my clothes and poured
hot coffee and brandy stuff into me, and I went to sleep for a while
in front of a big round stove; and was never so happy in my life.
Afterward I ate some supper; my, fellows, but it was good! And then, in
about an hour or so, Professor Beck popped in and said that he didn’t
want to hurry me, but that if I’d quite finished bathing we’d go home.
The station fellow--I believe I’ve forgotten his name--said he’d attend
to having the ice-yacht hauled out for us, and would look after it
until we sent for it.”
“Do you think it’s much broken up?” asked Carl.
“I don’t know,” replied Dick vigorously, “and what’s more, I don’t care
a continental!”
* * * * *
The Sleet, to anticipate a trifle, went back to its former owner at
a loss to the shareholders of six dollars, and a faculty edict was
solemnly published prohibiting forevermore at Hillton Academy the
fascinating and exhilarating sport of ice-yachting.
CHAPTER XV
IN THE ROWING-ROOM
February came in at Hillton as though resolved to make up for its
brevity by strict attention to business, and dealt out snow and sleet
with a lavish hand, and bullied the elements, which had begun to show
signs of relenting, into a state of sullen ferocity. For days together
the sun never so much as showed its face through the leaden clouds,
and the winds howled spitefully across the yard. It was the sort
of weather which, as Trevor explained one afternoon, while staring
dolorously out the window, fairly drove a fellow to study. The river
retained its armor of glaring ice, and the white-winged yachts passed
and repassed continuously, without, however, eliciting anything but the
most grudging admiration from Dick. The hockey team went to Marshall
and triumphed decisively over St. Eustace, who, minus Jenkins and the
freckle-faced Billings, was shorn of her strength. And, as though that
was not glory enough, Hillton and her old rival met in debate in the
town hall at Hillton and the former won a fourth consecutive victory by
proving to the satisfaction of three staid and reverend judges that the
development of the arid West would prove of more benefit to the United
States than the construction of an isthmian canal.
Work in the cage had begun for the baseball candidates, and Carl Gray
was very busy. Ambitious youths who were striving for places on the
track team held forth three afternoons each week in the gymnasium, and
a spirit of athletism seized upon the school world. The first squad
of crew candidates had graduated from weights to machines, while the
second squad, swelled by eight recruits since its first assembling,
were still in the throes of preliminary training. Professor Beck had
“hooked” the promising upper middle boy of whom he had spoken to Dick;
several candidates, inclusive of the unfortunate Perry, had been
dropped, and Coach Kirk had paid his first visit to the academy, had
looked the fellows over undemonstratively, and had gone his way again.
To-day, a bleak and dismal Thursday, the machines were occupied, and
Professor Beck was watching the performances of the eight youths with
dissatisfied mien.
“Lengthen out, Waters, lengthen out; that’s better. Crocker, your
recovery’s too slow; put some ginger into it; this is no place to go to
sleep. Four, put more drive into your legs; that’s the way. Stroke, hit
it up a little!” And Dick, in obedience to the command, quickened his
stroke. When the rest had gone Beck turned to Dick: “Hope, what’s the
matter with Taylor? This is the third day he’s been absent. We can’t
have that. You must speak to him, and tell him that he’ll have to
attend to business better.”
And Dick promised and went off laggingly to the task. He found Taylor
in his room in a boarding-house in the village.
He was stretched out on a couch reading when Dick entered in response
to a loud “Come in.” He appeared surprised when he looked up and saw
who his visitor was, but rose to the demands of the occasion.
“Hello, Hope, glad to see you. Sit down. Been ice-yachting lately?”
Dick replied gravely that he had not, and then heroically plunged into
the subject of his visit.
“Look here, Taylor,” he said, “I wish you’d try to be a little more
careful about training. You missed work again to-day. This makes the
third time it’s happened in the last two weeks. Can’t you do better
than that?”
Taylor frowned and yawned lazily before he answered.
“I’m glad you’ve mentioned it, Hope. The fact is, I’ve been thinking
about chucking it. I can’t see how I’m going to go in for rowing this
year and hope to pass spring exams. That’s what the trouble is, old
chap. I’ve been digging hard all afternoon”--adding, as he saw Dick
glance at the magazine in his hands--“just this minute laid my Greek
aside and took up this to--er--ease my brain.” He stopped and smiled
amiably across.
Dick frowned.
“That’s nonsense, Taylor, and you know it,” he said in low tones.
“Nonsense!” Taylor raised his eyebrows in surprise.
“Yes, nonsense. You can’t convince me that you’re so stupid as not to
be able to train for the crew and get through with your studies. There
are lots of fellows doing it; always have done it. I’m doing it myself;
Crocker’s doing it; so’s Milton and Arnold and lots of fellows; they’re
all in in our class; I haven’t heard them say that they were afraid of
not passing.”
“Well, that may be,” replied Taylor, “but it’s a question that every
fellow must decide for himself. I honestly don’t think I ought to keep
up crew work; I’ve got my folks to think of, you know; they didn’t
send me to school here to row or play football or anything of that
sort--that is, not that alone. I’ve got to pass, and to do that I’ve
got to study. If I’m not as smart and clever as some of the rest of
you”--here there was a trace of a sneer--“I can’t help it; a fellow’s
what he is, you know.”
Dick experienced an intense desire to kick his host and tell him what
he thought of him. But instead he smiled conciliatingly.
“I think you’re underestimating your ability, Taylor. Like a good
fellow, get those notions out of your head and come back to work; do
your best for the crew; it’s your last year. You know what shape we’re
in; we haven’t anywhere near the material we ought to have. Confound
it, Taylor, you’ve got to stay in the boat! You can’t do anything
else, when you stop and think how your leaving will weaken us!”
A smile of pleased vanity crossed the other boy’s face. Then he shook
his head resolutely.
“No, I can’t do it, Hope. Oh, I’ve thought it all over, and I know what
it means to the crew; but you’ll soon find another fellow at seven, and
never miss me. Of course, I’m awful sorry if it’s going to make trouble
for you, Hope; you know that. But it’s my duty, and I guess we’d better
consider the matter settled. I”--he smiled apologetically--“I’ll tender
my resignation, Hope.”
Dick arose, striving to conceal the indignation he felt.
“I sha’n’t accept it to-day, Taylor,” he answered gravely. “If you
feel the same way about it to-morrow evening, after thinking it over,
send me word and then I’ll scratch your name off the list. Only I hope
you’ll see your way to stay in the boat.”
On the way back to the academy Dick gave vent to his feelings, creasing
his brows savagely, kicking right and left at inoffending lumps of ice,
and even muttering half aloud as he strode along.
“Of all mean, contemptible tricks,” he thought angrily, “that’s the
worst! Just to spite me he’s willing to see the school defeated! By
Jove, I have half a mind to put the whole affair before Beck and
Wheeler; the whole school ought to know it. If they did, Taylor’s life
wouldn’t be worth living! But, no, I can’t shove it off on any one
else; I’m captain; I’ve got to fight it out alone; and I will! And I’ll
turn out a decent crew in spite of Taylor, in spite of anything he can
do, by Jove! I’ll----”
“’Ware the dog!” cried a voice, and he looked up quickly to see Trevor
grinning at him and to find Muggins leaping about him.
“Hello, Muggs!” he cried, vainly striving to bestow a pat upon that
unquiet animal. “Say, Trevor, hasn’t he grown? He’s twice the size he
was when you got him!”
“It’s a way puppies have.”
“You don’t say so? Who’d have thunk it! Beastly cold, isn’t it? Where
you going?”
“You can ask a lot of questions for a small kid,” laughed Trevor. “I’m
going to take Muggins back to his soap-box, and then I’m going home.
We’ve been out for a nice long walk, haven’t we, Muggins? Where’ve you
been?”
“Paying an afternoon call on Roy Taylor. Come on, I’ll walk back to the
stable with you.”
“All right; come ahead, Muggins. Now, behave yourself nicely before
your Uncle Richard! Hope Taylor was glad to see you?”
“I guess he was. Why?”
“Oh, you needn’t be so bally secretive about it,” grinned Trevor.
“Don’t you think I know that you went to call him down for not showing
up to-day?”
“You seem to know a good deal,” answered Dick, noncommittingly.
Trevor nodded vigorously.
“I do; I’m what you fellows call ‘right smart.’ I hope you gave it to
him straight from the shoulder.” And after a pause, in a sudden burst
of enthusiasm, “I don’t like that chap a little bit!”
“I gathered as much,” laughed Dick. “Beck was pretty huffy at him this
afternoon.”
“I don’t wonder. Just fancy, the beggar doesn’t show up half the time,
while the rest of us poor dubs sit there and slave at those bally
machines until our arms are pulled out of shape. I know mine are at
least six inches longer than they were a month ago.”
“How did you get on to-day?”
“Fairly well, I fancy. Only it takes a long time to get used to your
style of rowing. You see, it’s rather different from ours.”
“Is it? Perhaps you’re not aware that we are supposed to row the
English stroke?” Trevor raised his eyebrows.
“The dickens you say? Well, I can’t see much resemblance, Dick. Why,
you haven’t any body-swing; you make a chap’s legs do it all!”
“Do we? Well, you must mention that to Kirk next Saturday; I dare say
he’ll be glad to hear about it.”
“Rot; I’m not finding fault; any old stroke will do me; I’m just
saying that there’s a difference between the stroke that Beck and you
teach and the English stroke that I’ve seen. Maybe yours is the better
of the two. Here we are, Muggins. Now, be a good doggy until I see you
again; and don’t pull any more blankets off the table, or Jim will lay
it onto you with a strap.”
Muggins had by this time grown inured to partings, and so only stood by
the office stove and watched them disappear with head on one side and a
sort of “Must you go?” expression in his eyes.
“When do we get onto the river?” asked Trevor presently as they
retraced their steps down the village street in the teeth of a
northwest gale.
“Depends; sometimes in early March, sometimes not until about April.
You see, the ice makes it awkward. Kirk has got it into his head that
we’ll get out early this spring; I don’t know whether he’s made any
arrangements with the weather man.”
“He’s older than I expected. Last year I was a bit surprised to see
what a staid and venerable party he was.”
“Well, he’s nearly forty, though I don’t suppose that’s exactly
old--when you get used to it; they get even older, I’m told. But Kirk
knows a good deal about rowing, and he has turned out some dandy crews,
both here and at Harwell. When he was at school here he was captain of
the eight in his upper middle and senior years, and at college he rowed
four in his class crew the first year, went into the varsity boat the
next, and stayed there until he graduated; he was captain
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