The New Boy at Hilltop / Barbour, Ralph Henry, 1870-1944

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Title: The New Boy at Hilltop

Author: Ralph Henry Barbour

Release Date: September, 2004 [EBook #6487]
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[This file was first posted on December 20, 2002]

Edition: 10

Language: English

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THE NEW BOY AT HILLTOP

AND OTHER STORIES

BY

RALPH HENRY BARBOUR




TO BELINDA




CONTENTS


THE NEW BOY AT HILLTOP

THE PROVING OF JERRY

MCTURKLE, THE BAND

THE TRIUMPH OF "CURLY"

PATSY

HIS FIRST ASSIGNMENT

PEMBERTON'S FLUKE

THE SEVENTH TUTOR

A RACE WITH THE WATERS

A COLLEGE SANTA CLAUS

THE TRIPLE PLAY

THE DUB




THE NEW BOY AT HILLTOP



I


Hilltop School closed its fall term with just ninety-five students; it
opened again two weeks later, on the third of January, with ninety-six; and
thereby hangs this tale.

Kenneth Garwood had been booked for Hilltop in the autumn, but
circumstances had interfered with the family's plans. Instead he journeyed
to Moritzville on the afternoon of the day preceding the commencement of
the new term, a very cold and blustery January afternoon, during much of
which he sat curled tightly into a corner of his seat in the poorly heated
day coach, which was the best the train afforded, and wondered why the
Connecticut Valley was so much colder than Cleveland, Ohio. He had taken an
early train from New York, and all the way to Moritzville had sought with
natural eagerness for sight of his future schoolmates. But he had been
unsuccessful. When Hilltop returns to school it takes the mid-afternoon
express which reaches Moritzville just in time for dinner, whereas Kenneth
reached the school before it was dark, and at a quarter of five was in
undisputed possession, for the time being, of Number 12, Lower House.

"We are putting you," the principal had said, "with Joseph Brewster, a boy
of about your own age and a member of your class. He is one of our nicest
boys, one of whom we are very proud. You will, I am certain, become good
friends. Mr. Whipple here will show you to your room. Supper is at six.
Afterwards, say at eight o'clock, I should like you to see me again here at
the office. If there is anything you want you will find the matron's room
at the end of the lower hall. Er--will you take him in charge, Mr.
Whipple?"

On the way across the campus, between banks of purple-shadowed snow and
under leafless elms which creaked and groaned dismally in the wind, Kenneth
reached the firm conclusion that there were two persons at Hilltop whom he
was going to dislike cordially. One was the model Joseph Brewster, and the
other was Mr. Whipple. The instructor was young, scarcely more than
twenty-three, tall, sallow, near-sighted and taciturn. He wore an
unchanging smile on his thin face and spoke in a soft, silky voice that
made Kenneth want to trip him into one of the snow banks.

Lower House, so called to distinguish it from the other dormitory, Upper
House, which stood a hundred yards higher on the hill, looked very
uninviting. Its windows frowned dark and inhospitable and no light shone
from the hall as they entered. Mr. Whipple paused and searched
unsuccessfully for a match.

"I fear I have left my match box in my study," he said at length. "Just a
moment, please, Garwood, and I will--"

"Here's a match, sir," interrupted Kenneth.

"Ah!" Mr. Whipple accepted the match and rubbed it carefully under the
banister rail. "Thank you," he added as a tiny pale flame appeared at the
tip of the side bracket. "I trust that the possession of matches, my boy,
does not indicate a taste for tobacco on your part?" he continued, smiling
deprecatingly.

Kenneth took up his suit case again.

"I trust not, sir," he said. Mr. Whipple blinked behind his glasses.

"Smoking is, of course, prohibited at Hilltop."

"I think it is at most schools," Kenneth replied gravely.

"Oh, undoubtedly! I am to understand, then, that you are not even in the
least addicted to the habit?"

"Well, sir, it isn't likely you'll ever catch me at it," said Kenneth
imperturbably. The instructor flushed angrily.

"I hope not," he said in a silky voice, "I sincerely hope not, Garwood--for
your sake!"

He started up the stairs and Kenneth followed, smiling wickedly. He hadn't
made a very good beginning, he told himself, but Mr. Whipple irritated him
intensely. After the instructor had closed the door softly and taken his
departure, Kenneth sat down in an easy-chair and indulged in regrets.

"I wish I hadn't been so fresh," he muttered ruefully. "It doesn't do a
fellow any good to get the teachers down on him. Not that I'm scared of
that old boy, though! Dr. Randall isn't so bad, but if the rest of the
teachers are like Whipple I don't want to stay. Well, dad said I needn't
stay after this term if I don't like it. Guess I can stand three months,
even of Whipple! I hope Brewster isn't quite as bad. Maybe, though, they'll
give me another room if I kick. Don't see why I can't have a room by
myself, anyhow. I guess I'll get dad to write and ask for it. Only maybe a
chap in moderate circumstances like me isn't supposed to have a room all to
himself."

He chuckled softly and looked about him.

Number 12 consisted of a small study and a good-sized sleeping room opening
off. The study was well furnished, even if the carpet was worn bare in
spots and the green-topped table was a mass of ink blots. There were two
comfortable armchairs and two straight-backed chairs, the aforementioned
table, two bookcases, one on each side of the window, a wicker wastebasket
and two or three pictures. Also there was an inviting window seat heaped
with faded cushions. On the whole, Kenneth decided, the study, seen in the
soft radiance of the droplight, had a nice "homey" look. He crossed over
and examined the bedroom, drawing aside the faded brown chenille curtain to
let in the light. There wasn't much to see--two iron beds, two chiffoniers,
two chairs, a trunk bearing the initials "J. A. B." and a washstand. The
floor was bare save for three rugs, one beside each bed and one in front of
the washstand. The two windows had white muslin curtains and a couple of
uninteresting pictures hung on the walls. He dropped the curtain at the
door, placed his suit case on a chair and opened it. For the next few
minutes he was busy distributing its contents. To do this it was necessary
to light the gas in the bedroom and as it flared up, its light was
reflected from the gleaming backs of a set of silver brushes which he had
placed a moment before on the top of the chiffonier. He paused for a moment
and eyed them doubtfully.

"Gee!" he muttered. "I can't have those out. I'll have to buy some
brushes."

He gathered them up and tumbled them back into his suit case. Finally, with
everything put away, he took off coat and vest, collar and, cuffs, and
proceeded to wash up. And while he is doing it let us have a good look at
him.

He was fourteen years of age, but he looked older. Not that he was large
for his age; it was rather the expression of his face that added that
mythical year or so. He looked at once self-reliant and reserved. At first
glance one might have thought him conceited, in which case one would have
done him an injustice. Kenneth had traveled a good deal and had seen more
of the world than has the average boy of his age, and this had naturally
left its impress on his countenance. I can't honestly say that he was
handsome, and I don't think you will be disappointed to hear it. But he was
good-looking, with nice, quiet gray eyes, an aquiline nose, a fairly broad
mouth whose smiles meant more for being infrequent, and a firm, rather
pointed chin of the sort which is popularly supposed to, and in Kenneth's
case really did, denote firmness of character. His hair was brown and quite
guiltless of curl. His body was well set up and he carried himself with a
little backward thrust of the head and shoulders which might have seemed
arrogant, but wasn't, any more than was his steady, level manner of looking
at one.

Presently, having donned his clothes once more, he picked up a book from
the study table, pulled one of the chairs toward the light and set himself
comfortably therein, stretching his legs out and letting his elbows sink
into the padded leather arms. And so he sat when, after twenty minutes or
so, there were sounds outside the building plainly denoting the arrival of
students, sounds followed by steps on the stairs, shouts, laughter, happy
greetings, the thumping of bags, the clinking of keys. And so he sat when
the door of Number 12 was suddenly thrown wide open and a merry face,
flushed with the cold, looked amazedly upon him from between the high,
shaggy, upturned collar of a voluminous dark gray ulster and the soft visor
of a rakishly tilted cap.




II


And while Kenneth looked back, he felt his prejudices melting away. Surely
one couldn't dislike for very long such a jolly, mischievous-looking youth
as this! Of Kenneth's own age was the newcomer, a little heavier,
yellow-haired and blue-eyed, at once impetuous and good-humored. But at
this moment the good-humor was not greatly in evidence. Merriment gave
place to surprise, surprise to resentment on the boy's countenance.

"Hello!" he challenged.

Kenneth laid the book face down on his knee and smiled politely.

"How do you do?" he responded.

The newcomer dragged a big valise into the room and closed the door behind
him, never for an instant taking his gaze off Kenneth. Then, apparently
concluding that the figure in the armchair was real flesh and blood and not
a creature of the imagination, he tossed his cap to the table, revealing a
rumpled mass of golden yellow hair, and looked belligerently at the
intruder.

"Say, you've got the wrong room, I guess," he announced.

"Here's where they put me," answered Kenneth gravely.

"Well, you can't stay here," was the inhospitable response. "This is my
room."

Kenneth merely looked respectfully interested. Joe Brewster slid out of his
ulster, frowning angrily.

"You're a new boy, aren't you!" he demanded.

"About an hour and a half old," said Kenneth. Somehow the reply seemed to
annoy Joe. He clenched his hands and stepped toward the other truculently.

"Well, you go and see the matron; she'll find a room for you; there are
lots of rooms, I guess. Anyway, I'm not going to have you butting in here."

"You must be Joseph Brewster," said Kenneth. The other boy growled assent.
"The fact is, Brewster, they put me in here with you because you are such a
fine character. Dr. Whatshisname said you were the pride of the school, or
something like that. I guess they thought association with you would
benefit me."

Joe gave a roar and a rush. Over went the armchair, over went Kenneth, over
went Joe, and for a minute nothing was heard in Number 12 but the sound of
panting and gasping and muttered words, and the colliding of feet and
bodies with floor and furniture. The attack had been somewhat unexpected
and as a result, for the first moments of the battle, Kenneth occupied the
uncomfortable and inglorious position of the under dog. He strove only to
escape punishment, avoiding offensive tactics altogether. It was hard work,
however, for Brewster pummeled like a good one, his seraphic face aflame
with the light of battle and his yellow hair seeming to stand about his
head like a golden oriflamb. And while Kenneth hugged his adversary to him,
ducking his head away from the incessant jabs of a very industrious fist,
he realized that he had made a mistake in his estimation of his future
roommate. He was going to like him; he was quite sure he was; providing, of
course that said roommate left enough of him! And then, seeing, or rather
feeling his chance, he toppled Joe Brewster over his shoulder and in a
trice the tables were turned. Now it was Kenneth who was on top, and it
took him but a moment to seize Joe's wrists in a very firm grasp, a grasp
which, in spite of all efforts, Joe found it impossible to escape. Kenneth,
perched upon his stomach--uneasily, you may be sure, since Joe heaved and
tossed like a boat in a tempest--offered terms.

"Had enough?" he asked.

"No," growled Joe.

"Then you'll stay here until you have," answered Kenneth. "You and I are
going to be roommates, so we might as well get used to each other now as
later, eh? How any fellow with a face like a little pink angel can use his
fists the way you can, gets me!"

Kenneth was almost unseated at this juncture, but managed to hold his
place. Panting from the effects of the struggle, he went on:

"Seems to me Dr. Randall must be mistaken in you, Brewster. You don't
strike me at all as a model of deportment. Seems to me he and you fixed up
a pretty lively welcome for me, eh?"

The anger faded out of Joe's face and a smile trembled at the corners of
his mouth.

"Let me up," he said quietly.

"Behave?"

"Yep."

"All right," said Kenneth. But before he could struggle to his feet there
was a peremptory knock on the door, followed instantly by the appearance of
a third person on the scene, a dark-haired, sallow, tall youth of fifteen
who viewed the scene with surprise.

"What's up?" he asked.

Kenneth sprang to his feet and gave his hand to Joe. About them spread
devastation.

"I was showing him a new tackle," explained Kenneth easily.

Joe, somewhat red of face, shot him a look of gratitude.

"Oh," said the new arrival, "and who the dickens are you, kid?"

"My name's Garwood. I just came to-day. I'm to room with Brewster."

"Is that right?" asked the other, turning to Joe. Joe nodded.

"So he says, Graft. I think it's mighty mean, though. They let me have a
room to myself all fall, and now, just when I'm getting used to it, what do
they do? Why, they dump this chap in here. It isn't as though there weren't
plenty of other rooms!"

"Why don't you kick to the doctor?" asked Grafton Hyde.

"Oh, it wouldn't do any good, I suppose," said Joe.

Grafton Hyde sat down and viewed Kenneth with frank curiosity.

"Where are you from?" he demanded.

"Cleveland, Ohio."

"Any relation to John Garwood, the railroad man?"

"Ye-es, some," said Kenneth. Grafton snorted.

"Huh! I dare say! Most everyone tries to claim relationship with a
millionaire. Bet you, he doesn't know you're alive!"

"Well," answered Kenneth with some confusion, "maybe not, but--but I think
he's related to our family, just the same."

"You do, eh?" responded Grafton sarcastically. "Well, I wouldn't try very
hard to claim relationship if I were you. I guess if the honest truth were
known there aren't very many fellows who would want to be in John Garwood's
shoes, for all his money."

"Why?" asked Kenneth.

"Because he's no good. Look at the way he treated his employees in that
last strike! Some of 'em nearly starved to death!"

"That's a--that isn't so!" answered Kenneth hotly. "It was all newspaper
lies."

"Newspapers don't lie," said Grafton sententiously.

"They lied then, like anything," was the reply.

"Well, everyone knows what John Garwood is," said Grafton carelessly. "I've
heard my father tell about him time and again. He used to know him years
ago."

Kenneth opened his lips, thought better of it and kept silence.

"Ever hear of my father?" asked Grafton with a little swagger.

"What's his name?" asked Kenneth.

"Peter Hyde," answered the other importantly.

"Oh, yes! He's a big politician in Chicago, isn't he?"

"No, he isn't!" replied Grafton angrily. "He's Peter Hyde, the lumber
magnate."

"Oh!" said Kenneth. "What--what's a lumber magnet?"

"_Magnate_, not magnet!" growled Grafton. "It's time you came to school if
you don't know English. Where have you been going?"

"I beg pardon?"

"What school have you been to? My, you're a dummy!"

"I haven't been to any school this year. Last year I went to the grammar
school at home."

"Then this is your first boarding school, eh?"

"Yes; and I hope I'll like it. The catalogue said it was a very fine
school. I trust I shall profit from my connection with it."

Grafton stared bewilderedly, but the new junior's face was as innocent as a
cherub's. Joe Brewster stared, too, for a moment; then a smile flickered
around his mouth and he bent his head, finding interest in a bleeding
knuckle.

"Well, I came over to talk about the team, Joe," Grafton said after a
moment. "I didn't know you had company."

"Didn't know it myself," muttered Joe.

Kenneth picked up his book again and went back to his reading. But he was
not so deeply immersed but that he caught now and then fragments of the
conversation, from which he gathered that both Joe and Hyde were members of
the Lower House Basket Ball Team, that Hyde held a very excellent opinion
of his own abilities as a player, that Upper House was going to have a very
strong team and that if Lower didn't find a fellow who could throw goals
from fouls better than Simms could it was all up with them. Suddenly
Kenneth laid down his book again.

"I say, you fellows, couldn't I try for that team?" he asked.

"Oh, yes, you can _try_," laughed Grafton. "Ever play any?"

"A little. We had a team at the grammar school. I played right guard."

"You did, eh? That's where I play," said Grafton. "Maybe you'd like my
place?"

"Don't you want it?" asked Kenneth innocently.

"Don't I want it! Well, you'll have to work pretty hard to get it!"

"I will," said Kenneth very simply. Grafton stared doubtfully.

"Candidates are called for four o'clock tomorrow afternoon," said Joe.
"You'd better come along. You're pretty light, but Jim Marble will give you
a try all right."

"Thanks," answered Kenneth. "But would practice be likely to interfere with
my studies?"

"Say, kid, you're' a wonder!" sneered Grafton as he got up to go. "I never
saw anything so freshly green in my life! You're going to have a real nice
time here at Hilltop; I can see that. Well, see you later, Joe. Come up
to-night; I want to show you some new snowshoes I brought back. Farewell,
Garwood. By the way, what's your first name?"

"Kenneth."

"Hey?"

"Kenneth; K, e, n, n, e--"

"Say, that's a peach!" laughed Grafton. "Well, bring little Kenneth with
you, Joe; I've got some picture books."

"Thank you," said the new junior gratefully.

"Oh, don't mention it!" And Grafton went out chuckling.

As the door closed behind him, Joe Brewster sank into a chair and thrust
out his legs, hands in pockets, while a radiant grin slowly overspread his
angelic countenance.

"Well," he said finally, "you're the first fellow that ever bluffed Graft!
And the way he took it!"

Kenneth smiled modestly under the admiring regard of his roommate.

"Gee!" cried Joe, glancing at his watch. "It's after six. Come on to
supper. Maybe if we hurry they'll give you a place at our table."

Kenneth picked up his cap and followed his new friend down the stairs. On
the way he asked:

"Is that chap Hyde a particular friend of yours?"

"N-no," answered Joe, "not exactly. We're on the team together, and he
isn't such a bad sort. Only--he's the richest fellow in school and he can't
forget it!"

"I don't like him," said Kenneth decidedly.

Hilltop School stands on the top of a hill overlooking the Connecticut
Valley, a cluster of half a dozen ivy-draped buildings of which only one,
the new gymnasium, looks less than a hundred years old. Seventy-six feet by
forty it is, built of red sandstone with freestone trimming; a fine,
aristocratic-looking structure which lends quite an air to the old campus.
In the basement there is a roomy baseball cage, a bowling alley, lockers,
and baths. In the main hall, one end of which terminates in a fair-sized
stage, are gymnastic apparatus of all kinds.

It was here that Kenneth found himself at four o'clock the next day. His
trunk had arrived and he had dug out his old basket-ball costume, a red
sleeveless shirt, white knee pants, and canvas shoes. He wore them now as
he sat, a lithe, graceful figure, on the edge of the stage. There were
nearly thirty other fellows on the floor amusing themselves in various ways
while they waited for the captain to arrive. Several of them Kenneth
already knew well enough to speak to and many others he knew by name. For
Joe had made himself Kenneth's guide and mentor, had shown him all there
was to be seen, had introduced him to a number of the fellows and pointed
out others and had initiated him into many of the school manners and
methods. This morning Kenneth had made his appearance in various class
rooms and had met various teachers, among them Mr. Whipple, who, Kenneth
discovered, was instructor in English. The fellows seemed a friendly lot
and he was already growing to like Hilltop.

Naturally enough, Kenneth found himself the object of much interest. He was
a new boy, the only new one in school. At Hilltop the athletic rivalry was
principally internal, between dormitory and dormitory. To be sure the
baseball and football teams played other schools, but nevertheless the
contests which wrought the fellows up to the highest pitch of enthusiasm
were those in which the Blue of Upper House and the Crimson of Lower met in
battle. Each dormitory had its own football, baseball, hockey, tennis,
track, basket ball, and debating, team, and rivalry was always intense.
Hence the arrival of a new boy in Lower House meant a good deal to both
camps. And most fellows liked what they saw of Kenneth, even while
regretting that he wasn't old enough and big enough for football material.
Kenneth bore the scrutiny without embarrassment, but nevertheless he was
glad when Joe joined him where he sat on the edge of the stage.

"Jim hasn't come yet," said Joe, examining a big black-and-blue spot on his
left knee. "I guess there won't be time for much practice today, because
Upper has the floor at five. They're going to have a dandy team this year;
a whole bunch of big fellows. But they had a big heavy team year before
last and we beat them the first two games."

"Don't you play any outside schools?"

"No, the faculty won't let us. Perfect rot, isn't it? They let us play
outsiders at football and baseball and all that, but they won't let us take
on even the grammar school for basket ball. Randy says the game is too
rough and we might get injured. Bough! I'd like to know what he calls
football!"

"I don't understand about the classes here," said Kenneth. "I heard that
big chap over there say he couldn't play because he was 'advanced' or
something. What's that!"

"Advanced senior," answered Joe. "You see, there's the preparatory class,
the junior class, the middle class and the senior class. Then if a fellow
wants to fit for college, he does another year in the senior class and in
order to distinguish him from the fourth-year fellows they call him an
advanced senior. See? There are five in school this year. Faculty won't let
them play basket ball or football because they're supposed to be too big
and might hurt some of us little chaps. Huh! Hello, there's Jim. I've got
to see him a minute."

And Joe slipped off the stage and scurried across to where a boy of about
sixteen, a tall, athletic-looking youth with reddish-brown hair was
crossing the floor with a ball under each arm. Joe stopped him and said a
few words and presently they both walked over to where Kenneth sat. Joe
introduced the captain and the new candidate.

"Joe says you've played the game," said Jim inquiringly in a pleasant voice
as he shook hands. Kenneth was somewhat awed by him and replied quite
modestly:

"Yes, but I don't suppose I can play with you fellows. Still, I'd like to
try."

"That's right. How are you on throwing baskets?"

"Well, I used to be pretty fair last year."

"Good enough. If you can throw goals well, you'll stand a good show of
making the team as a substitute. You'd better get out there with the others
and warm up."




III


Kenneth's first week at Hilltop passed busily and happily. There had been
no more talk on Joe's part about getting rid of his roommate. The two had
become fast friends. Kenneth grew to like Joe better each day; and it
hadn't taken him long to discover that it was because of Joe's ability to
squirm out of scrapes or to avoid detection altogether rather than to
irreproachable conduct that Dr. Randall looked upon him as a model student.

Basket-ball practice for both the Upper and Lower House teams took place
every week-day afternoon. Kenneth had erred, if at all, on the side of
modesty when speaking of his basket-ball ability. To be sure, he was light
in weight for a team where the members' ages averaged almost sixteen years,
but he made up for that in speed, while his prowess at shooting baskets
from the floor or from fouls was so remarkable that after a few practice
games had been played all Lower House was discussing him with eager
amazement and Upper House was sitting up and taking notice. At the end of
the first week Kenneth secured a place on the second team at right guard,
and Grafton Hyde, whose place in a similar position on the first team was
his more by reason of his size and weight than because of real ability,
began to work his hardest.

The closer Kenneth pressed him for his place the more Grafton's dislike of
the younger boy became evident. As there was the length of the floor
between their positions in the practice games the two had few opportunities
to "mix it up," but once or twice they got into a scrimmage together and on
those occasions the fur flew. Grafton was a hard, rough player and he
didn't handle Kenneth with gloves. On the other hand, Kenneth asked no
favors nor gave any. Naturally Grafton's superior size and strength gave
him the advantage, and after the second of these "mix-ups," during which
the other players and the few spectators looked on gleefully and the
referee blew his whistle until he was purple in the face, Kenneth limped
down to the dressing room with a badly bruised knee, a factor which kept
him out of the game for the next two days and caused Grafton to throw
sarcastic asides in the direction of the bench against which Kenneth's
heels beat a disconsolate tattoo.

Four days before the first game with Upper House--the championship shield
went to the team winning two games out of three--Lower House held an
enthusiastic meeting at which songs and cheers were practiced and at which
the forty odd fellows in attendance pledged themselves for various sums of
money to defray the cost of new suits and paraphernalia for both the basket
ball and hockey teams.

"How much do you give?" whispered Kenneth.

"Five dollars," answered Joe, his pencil poised above the little slip of
paper. Kenneth stared.

"But--isn't that a good bit?" he asked incredulously.

"It seems so when you only get twenty dollars a month allowance," answered
Joe ruefully. "But every fellow gives what he thinks he ought to, you know;
Graft usually gives ten dollars, but lots of the fellows can only give
fifty cents."

"I see," murmured Kenneth. "'What he thinks he ought to give, eh? That's
easy."

The following afternoon Upper and Lower Houses turned out _en masse_ to see
the first of the hockey series and stood ankle-deep in the new snow while
Upper proceeded to administer a generous trouncing to her rival.

"Eat 'em up, Upper! Eat 'em up, Upper!" gleefully shouted the supporters of
the blue-stockinged players along the opposite barrier.

"Oh, forget it!" growled Joe, pulling the collar of his red sweater higher
about his neck and turning a disgusted back to the rink. "That's 14 to 3,
isn't it? Well, it must be pretty near over, that's one comfort! Hello,
here comes Whipple. Gee, but he makes me tired! Always trying to mix with
the fellows. I wonder if he was born with that ugly smile of his. He's
coming this way," Joe groaned. "He thinks I'm such a nice little boy and
says he hopes my heart is of gold to match my hair! Wouldn't that peev
you?"

"Ah, Brewster," greeted Mr. Whipple, laying a hand on the boy's shoulder,
"how goes it today?" He accorded Kenneth a curt nod.

"Going bad," growled Joe.

"Well, well, we must take the bad with the good," said the instructor
sweetly. "Even defeat has its lesson, you know. Now--"

But Kenneth didn't hear the rest. Grafton Hyde was beside him with a slip
of paper in his hand.

"Say, Garwood," said Grafton loudly enough to be heard by the audience near
by, "I wish you'd tell me about this. It's your subscription slip. These
figures look like a one and two naughts, but I guess you meant ten dollars
instead of one, didn't you?"

"No," answered Kenneth calmly.

"Oh! But--only a dollar?" inquired Grafton incredulously.

The fellows nearest at hand who had been either watching the game or
delighting in Joe's discomforture turned their attention to Grafton and the
new junior.

"Exactly," answered Kenneth. "The figures are perfectly plain, aren't
they?"

Grafton shrugged his shoulders and smiled.

"Oh, all right," he said. "Only a dollar seemed rather little, and I wanted
to be sure--"

"Didn't anyone else give a dollar?" demanded Kenneth.

"We don't make public the amounts received," answered Grafton with much
dignity. Kenneth smiled sarcastically.

"What are you doing now?" he asked.

"I merely asked--"

"And I answered. That's enough, isn't it?"

"Yes, but let me tell you that we don't take to stingy fellows in Lower
House. You'd better get moved to Upper, Garwood; that's where you belong.
You're a fresh kid, and I guess we don't have to have your subscription
anyway." He tore the slip up contemptuously and tossed the pieces to the
snow. Kenneth colored.

"Just as you like," he answered. "I subscribed what I thought proper and
you've refused to accept it. You haven't worried me."

But a glance over the faces of the little throng showed that public
sentiment was against him. Well, that couldn't be helped now. He turned his
back and gave his attention to the game. But the incident was not yet
closed. Mr. Whipple's smooth voice sounded in its most conciliatory tones:

"We all know your generosity, Hyde. Let us hope that by next year Garwood
will have learned from you the spirit of giving."

Kenneth swung around and faced the instructor.

"May I ask, sir, how much you gave?"

"Me? Why--ah--I think the teachers are not required--I should say expected
to--ah--contribute," answered Mr. Whipple agitatedly.

"I guess they aren't forbidden to," answered Kenneth. "And I don't believe
you've got any right to criticise the size of my subscription until you've
given something yourself."

Mr. Whipple's smile grew tremulous and almost flickered out.

"I'm sure that the boys of the Lower House know that I am always ready and
eager to aid in any way," he replied with angry dignity, "If they will
allow me to contribute--" He paused and viewed the circle smilingly.

The idea tickled all hands hugely.

"Yes, sir!"

"Thank you, sir!"

"About five dollars, Mr. Whipple!"

Mr. Whipple's smile grew strained and uneasy. He had not expected
acceptance of his offer.

"Yes, yes, perhaps it is best to keep the donations confined to the student
body," he said. "Perhaps at another time you'll allow--"

"Right now, sir!" cried Joe. "Give us a couple of dollars, sir!"

The demand could not be disregarded. Shouts of approval arose on every
hand. On the ice, Wason of the Upper House team had hurt his knee and time
had been called; and the waiting players flocked to the barrier to see what
was up. Mr. Whipple looked questioningly at Grafton and found that youth
regarding him expectantly. With a sigh which was quickly stifled he drew
forth his pocketbook and selected a two dollar note from the little roll it
contained. He handed it to Grafton who accepted it carelessly.

"Thanks," said Grafton. "I'll send you a receipt, sir."

"Oh, that is not necessary," replied Mr. Whipple. Now that the thing was
past mending he made the best of it. His smile had returned in all its
serenity. "And now, Garwood," he said, "as I have complied with your
requirements, allow me to say that your conduct has not been--ah--up to
Hilltop standards. Let me suggest that you cultivate generosity."

Kenneth, who had kept his back turned since his last words, swung around
with an angry retort on his lips. But Joe's hand pulled him back.

"Shut up, chum!" whispered Joe. "Let him go."

Kenneth, swallowed, his anger and Mr. Whipple, with a smiling nod, followed
by a quick malevolent glance at Joe, turned away from the group of grinning
faces.

Chuckles and quiet snickers followed him.

There was joy in the ranks of the enemy.

Only Kenneth showed no satisfaction over the instructor's discomfiture for
he realized that the latter would hold him partly accountable for it.

Presently, the game having come to an end with the score 18 to 7 in Upper's
favor, he and Joe went back together up the hill.

"I wish," said Joe, with a frown, "you hadn't made that fuss about the
subscription. Fellows will think you're stingy, I'm afraid."

"Well, they'll have to think so then," responded Kenneth defiantly.
"Anyhow, Hyde had no business pitching into me about it like that in
public."

"No, that's so," Joe acknowledged. "He hadn't. I guess he's got it in for
you good and hard. But don't you be worried."

"I'm not," answered Kenneth. And he didn't look to be.

"I'm going to see Jim Marble before Graft gets at him with a lot of yarns
about you," Joe continued.

"Thanks," said Kenneth. "I wish you would. I don't want to lose all show
for the team."

"You bet you don't! You're getting on finely, too, aren't you? I don't see
how you work those long throws of yours. Graft says it's just your fool
luck," Joe chuckled. "I asked him why he didn't cultivate a little luck
himself! He's been playing like a baby so far; sloppy's no name for it!"

"Think Marble notices it?"

"Of course he notices it! Jim doesn't miss a thing. Why?"

"Nothing, only--well, I've made up my mind to beat Grafton out; and I'm
going to do it!"

Two days later there was deeper gloom than ever in Lower House. Upper had
won the first basket ball game! And the score, 14 to 6, didn't offer ground
for comfort. There was no good reason to suppose that the next game, coming
a week later, would result very differently. Individually three at least of
the five players had done brilliant work, Marble at center. Joe at left
forward and Collier at left guard having won applause time and again. But
Upper had far excelled in team work, especially on offense, and Lower's
much-heralded speed hadn't shown up. On the defense, all things considered,
Lower had done fairly well, although most of the honor belonged to Collier
at left guard, Grafton Hyde having played a slow, blundering game in which
he had apparently sought to substitute roughness for science. More than
half of the fouls called on the Red had been made by Grafton. And, even
though Upper had no very certain basket thrower, still she couldn't have
helped making a fair share of those goals from fouls.

Kenneth hadn't gone on until the last minute of play, and he had not
distinguished himself. In fact his one play had been a failure. He had
taken Grafton's place at right guard. Carl Jones, Upper's big center, stole
the ball in the middle of the floor and succeeded in getting quite away
from the field. Kenneth saw the danger and gave chase, but his lack of
weight was against him. Jones brushed him aside, almost under the basket,
and, while Kenneth went rolling over out of bounds, tossed the easiest sort
of a goal.

But Kenneth's lack of success on that occasion caused him to work harder
than ever in practice, and, on the following Thursday the long-expected
happened. Grafton Hyde went to the second team and Kenneth took his place
at right guard on the first.




IV


Grafton could scarcely believe it at first. When he discovered that Jim
Marble really meant that he was to go to the second team his anger almost
got the better of him, and the glance he turned from Jim to Kenneth held
nothing of affection. But he took his place at right guard on the second
and, although with ill grace, played the position while practice lasted.
Kenneth took pains to keep away from him, since there was no telling what
tricks he might be up to. The first team put it all over the second that
day and Jim Marble was smiling when time was called and the panting players
tumbled downstairs to the showers. On Friday practice was short. After it
was over Kenneth stopped at the library on his way back to Lower House.
When he opened the door of Number 12 he found Joe with his books spread
out, studying.

"Hello, where have you been?" asked Joe. "Graft was in here a minute ago
looking for you. Said if you came in before dinner to ask you to go up to
his room a minute. Of course," said Joe, grinning, "he may intend to throw
you out of the window or give you poison, but he talked sweetly enough.
Still, maybe you'd better stay away; perhaps he's just looking for a chance
to quarrel."

Kenneth thought a minute. Then he turned toward the door.

"Going?" asked Joe.

"Yes."

"Well, if you're not back by six I'll head a rescue party."

Grafton Hyde roomed by himself on the third floor. His two rooms, on the
corner of the building, were somewhat elaborately furnished, as befitted
the apartments of "the richest fellow in school." He had chosen the third
floor because he was under surveillance less strict than were the first and
second floor boys. The teacher on the third floor was Mr. Whipple and, as
his rooms were at the other end of the hall and as he paid little attention
at best to his charges, Grafton did about as he pleased. To-night there was
no light shining through the transom when Kenneth reached Number 21 and he
decided that Grafton was out. But he would make sure and so knocked at the
door. To his surprise he was told to come in. As he opened the door a chill
draft swept by him, a draft at once redolent of snow and of cigarette
smoke. The room was in complete darkness, but a form was outlined against
one of the windows, the lower sash of which was fully raised, and a tiny
red spark glowed there. Kenneth paused on the threshold.

"Who is it?" asked Grafton's voice.

"Garwood," was the reply. "Joe said you wanted me to look you up."

The spark suddenly dropped out of sight, evidently tossed through the open
window.

"Oh," said Grafton with a trace of embarrassment. "Er--wait a moment and
I'll light up."

"Don't bother," said Kenneth. "I can't stay but a minute. I just thought
I'd see what you wanted."

"Well, you'll find a chair there by the table," said Grafton, sinking back
on the window seat. "Much obliged to you for coming up."

There was a silence during which Kenneth found the chair and Grafton pulled
down the window. Then,

"Look here, Garwood," said Grafton, "you've got my place on the team, I
don't say you didn't get it fair and square, because you did. But I want
it. You know me pretty well and I guess you know I generally get what I
want. You're a pretty good sort, and you're a friend of Joe's, and I like
Joe, but I might make it mighty uncomfortable for you if I wanted to, which
I don't. I'll tell you what I'll do, Garwood. You get yourself back on the
second team and I'll make it right with you. If you need a little money--"

"Is that all?" asked Kenneth, rising.

"Hold on! Don't get waxy! Wait till I explain. I'll give you twenty-five
dollars, Garwood. You can do a whole lot with twenty-five dollars. And
that's a mighty generous offer. All you've got to do is to play off for a
couple of days. Tomorrow you could be kind of sick and not able to play. No
one would think anything about it, and you can bet I wouldn't breathe a
word of it. What do you say?"

"I say you're a confounded cad!" cried Kenneth hotly.

"Oh, you do, eh? I haven't offered enough, I suppose!" sneered Grafton. "I
might have known that a fellow who would only give a dollar to the teams
would be a hard bargainer! Well, I'm not stingy; I'll call it thirty. Now,
what do you say?"

"When you get your place back it'll be by some other means than buying it,"
said Kenneth contemptuously. He turned toward the door. "You haven't got
enough money to buy everything, you see; and--"

There was a sharp knock on the door.

"If you say anything about this," whispered Grafton hoarsely, "I'll--I'll--
Come in!"

"Who is here?" asked Mr. Whipple's voice as the door swung open.

"I, sir, and Garwood," answered Grafton.

"Ah! Garwood! And which one of you, may I ask, has been smoking
cigarettes?"

There was a moment's silence. Then,

"Nobody in here, sir," answered Grafton.

"That will do, Hyde. Don't attempt to shield him," said Mr. Whipple coldly.
"Light the gas, please."

Grafton slid off the window seat and groped toward where Kenneth was
standing.

"Yes, sir," he said, "as soon as I can find a match." He brushed heavily
against Kenneth.

"I beg your pardon, Garwood. I'm all turned around. Where--? Oh, here they
are." A match flared and Grafton lighted the droplight. Mr. Whipple turned
to Kenneth, a triumphant smile on his thin features.

"Well, what have you to say?" he asked.

"About what, sir!" inquired Kenneth.

"About smoking. You deny it, then."

"Yes."

"Ah! And what about this!" Mr. Whipple opened his hand and displayed a
portion of a cigarette with charred end. "You should be more careful where
you throw them, Garwood. This came from the window just as I was passing
below."

"It's not mine," was the answer.

"Oh, then it was you, Hyde?"

Grafton smiled and shrugged his shoulders.

"If you can find any cigarettes in my room, sir, you--"

"Pshaw! What's the use in pretending?" interrupted the instructor, viewing
Kenneth balefully. "I fancy I know where to look for cigarettes, eh,
Garwood? You have no objection to emptying your pockets for me?"

"None at all, Mr. Whipple."

"Then, may I suggest that you do so?"

Kenneth dove into one pocket and brought out a handkerchief and a small
piece of pencil, into the other and--

"Ah!" said Mr. Whipple triumphantly.

In Kenneth's hand lay a piece of folded paper, a skate strap and--a box of
cigarettes! He stared at the latter bewilderedly for a moment. Then he
glanced sharply at Grafton. That youth regarded him commiseratingly and
slowly shook his head.

"I'll take those, if you please," said Mr. Whipple. Kenneth handed them
over.

"I never saw them before," he said simply.

"Oh, of course not," jeered the instructor. "And the room rank with
cigarette smoke! That's a pretty tall story, I think, Garwood. You told me
once that I would never catch you smoking cigarettes. You see you were a
trifle mistaken. You may go to your room."

"I wasn't smoking cigarettes," protested Kenneth. "I never saw that box
before in my life. If Hyde won't tell, I will. I came up here and found
him--"

He stopped. What was the use? Telling on another fellow was mean work, and,
besides, Mr. Whipple wouldn't believe him. He had no proof to offer and all
the evidence was against him. He turned to the door. On the threshold he
looked back at Grafton.

"You sneak!" he said softly.

Then, with the angry tears blinding his eyes, he hurried down to his room
to unburden his heart to Joe Brewster.

Joe was wildly indignant and was all for dashing upstairs and "knocking the
spots out of Graft!" But Kenneth refused his consent to such a procedure.

"I'll tell them the truth when they call me up," he said. "If they don't
believe me they needn't."

Well, they didn't. Kenneth refused to incriminate Grafton and as all the
evidence was strongly against him he was held guilty. The verdict was
"suspension" as soon as Kenneth's parents could be communicated with.
Grafton denied having smoked with Kenneth and got off with a lecture for
permitting an infraction of the rules in his study. Joe stormed and
sputtered, but as Kenneth had bound him to secrecy he could do no more.

That night Upper and Lower met in the second basket-ball game and Grafton
Hyde played right guard on the Lower House team. Fate was kind to the Beds.
Knox, Upper's crack right forward, was out of the game with a twisted ankle
and when the last whistle blew the score board declared Lower House the
winner by a score of 12 to 9. And Lower House tramped through the snow,
around and around the campus, and made night hideous with songs and cheers
until threatened by the faculty with dire punishment if they did not at
once retire to their rooms. And up in Number 12 Kenneth, feeling terribly
out of it all, heard and was glad of the victory.

Sunday afternoon he spent in packing his trunk, for, in spite of Joe's
pleadings, he was determined not to return to Hilltop when his term of
suspension was over. He expected to hear from his father in the morning, in
which case he would take the noon train to New York on the first stage of
his journey.

That night they sat up late, since it was to be their last evening
together, and Joe was very miserable. He begged Kenneth to go to Dr.
Randall and tell just what had occurred. But Kenneth shook his head.

"He wouldn't believe me if I did," he said. "And, anyhow, what's the use of
staying while Whipple's here? He'd get me fired sooner or later. No, the
best way to do is to quit now. I'm sorry, Joe; you and I were getting on
together pretty well, weren't we?"

"Yes," answered Joe sadly. And then he became reminiscent and asked whether
Kenneth remembered the way they kicked the furniture around that first
evening and how Kenneth had joshed Grafton Hyde.

When they at last went to bed Kenneth found himself unable to sleep. Eleven
o'clock struck on the town clock. From across the room came Joe's regular
breathing and Kenneth, punching his pillow into a new shape, envied him.
For a half hour longer he tossed and turned, and then slumber came to him,
yet so fitfully that he was wide awake and out of bed the instant that that
first shrill cry of "_Fire!_" sounded in the corridor.




V


Kenneth's first act after hearing the alarm was to awake Joe, This he did
by the simple expedient of yanking the bedclothes away from him and yelling
"Fire!" at the top of his lungs. Then, stumbling over the chairs, he groped
his way to the hall door and opened it. The corridor was already filled
with excitement and confusion. Of the eighteen boys who roomed on that
floor fully half were in evidence, standing dazedly about in pyjamas or
night shirts and shouting useless questions and absurd answers. Simms, who
lived at the far end of the corridor, emerged from his room dragging a
steamer trunk after him. Instantly the scantily clad youths dashed into
their rooms intent on rescuing their belongings. Joe joined Kenneth at the
door.

"Where's the fire?" he gasped.

"I don't know," answered Kenneth, "but I can smell it. Get something on;
I'm going to. Has anyone given the alarm?" he asked, as Simms hurried back
toward his study.

"Yes! No! I don't know! Everything's on fire upstairs! You'd better get
your things out!"

"Somebody ought to give the alarm," said Kenneth. "Who's seen Mr. Bronson?"

But none had time to answer him. Kenneth scooted down the hall and thumped
at the instructor's door. There was no answer and Kenneth unceremoniously
shoved it open. The study was in darkness.

"_Mr. Bronson!_" he cried. "_Mr. Bronson!_"

There was no reply, and Kenneth recollected that very frequently Mr.
Bronson spent Sunday night at his home. He hurried back to his own room and
found Joe throwing their belongings out of the windows. At that moment the
bell on School Hall began to clang wildly and a second afterwards the alarm
was taken up by the fire bell in the village, a mile away.

Kenneth pulled on his trousers and shoes, looked for a coat only to find
that Joe had thrown all the coats out of the windows, and went back to the
corridor. All up and down it boys were staggering along with trunks and
bags, while from the western end the smoke was volleying forth from Number
19 in great billowy clouds. From the floor above raced fellows with suit
cases and small trunks, shouting and laughing in the excitement of the
moment.

One of the older boys, Harris by name, came galloping upstairs with a fire
extinguisher, followed by a crowd of partly dressed fellows from Upper
House. But the smoke which filled the end of the corridor drove them back
and the stream from the extinguisher wasted itself against the fast
yellowing plaster of the wall. The building was rapidly becoming
uninhabitable and, calling Joe from the study, where he was vainly trying
to get the study table through the casement, Kenneth made for the stairs.
The light at the far end of the corridor shone red and murky through the
dense clouds of smoke.

"All out of the building!" cried a voice from below, and the half dozen
adventurous spirits remaining in the second floor corridor started down the
stairs.

"Do you know how it began?" asked Joe of a boy beside him.

"Yes," was the reply. "King, in 19, was reading in bed with a lamp he has,
and he went to sleep and upset it somehow. He got burned, they say."

"Serves him right," muttered some one. Kenneth glanced around and found
Grafton Hyde beside him.

"Hello," said Kenneth.

"Hello," answered Grafton. "Did you save anything?"

"Yes, I guess so," Kenneth replied. "Did you?"

For the moment animosities were forgotten, wiped out of existence by the
calamity.

"Not much," said Grafton. "But I don't care. I tried to get my trunk down
but the smoke was fierce and the end of the building was all in flames. So
I lit out."

The lower hall was crowded with boys. Dr. Randall, tall and gaunt in a red
flowered dressing gown, and several of the instructors were doing their
best to clear the building.

"All out, boys!" called the doctor. "It isn't safe here now! The firemen
will be here in a minute and you'll only be in the way! I want you all to
go over to Upper House!"

"Hello!" said Kenneth. "What's the matter with you, Jasper?"

Jasper Hendricks, the youngest boy in school, was crouched in a dim corner
of the hall, sobbing and shaking as though his heart was broken.

"What's up?" asked Grafton.

"Don't know. Here's young Jasper crying like a good one. What's the
trouble, Jasper? Did you get hurt?"

But the boy apparently didn't even hear them.

"Lost his things, probably," suggested Grafton, "and feels it. Never mind,
kid? you'll get some more."

"I want every boy out of the building!" cried the doctor. But his voice was
almost drowned in the babel of cries and shouts and laughter.

"Come on, Jasper," said Kenneth, trying to raise him to his feet. "We've
got to get out."

For the first time he caught a glimpse of the boy's face. It was white and
drawn and horror stricken.

"What's the matter?" cried Kenneth in alarm. Young Hendrick's lips moved
but Kenneth could not distinguish the whispered words.

"Eh? What's that? Speak louder! You're all right now! Don't be scared! What
is it?" And Kenneth bent his head as the younger boy clung to him
convulsively.

"_Mister Whipple!_"

Kenneth barely caught the whispered words.

"Mr. Whipple," he muttered. "What does he mean?" He pulled the lad's body
around so that he could see his face in the smoke-dimmed light. "What about
him, Jasper? He's safe, isn't he?"

The white face shook from side to side.

"What does he say?" cried Grafton. "Whipple? Isn't he down? Where is he?"

"He must be--!"

Kenneth paused, his own face paling, and looked fearsomely toward the
stairs down which the gray-brown smoke was floating wraithlike. Then his
eyes met Grafton's and he read his own horror reflected there.

"Jasper's room is next to Mr. Whipple's," said Grafton hoarsely. "He must
have seen something! _Jasper, is Mr. Whipple up there now?"_

The lad's head nodded weakly. Then he broke again into great dry sobs that
shook him from head to foot. Kenneth seized him beneath the shoulders and
dragged him a few yards nearer the door. There he put him down.

"Don't cry, Jasper," he whispered kindly. "It's all right; we'll save him!"

For an instant he looked about him. Through the doors the boys were pushing
their way outward, protesting, laughing, excitedly.

Of the faculty Dr. Randall alone was in sight. One other instant Kenneth
hesitated. Then with a bound he was halfway up the first flight.

"Who's that going up there?" cried the doctor. "Here, come back instantly!"

But Kenneth did not hear, or, hearing, paid no heed. He was at the second
floor, the evil-smelling smoke thick about him, blinding his eyes and
smarting his throat. Above him was a strange lurid glare and the roaring of
the flames. For a moment his heart failed him and he leaned weak and
panting against the banister. Then a voice sounded in his ears.

"It's no use, Garwood," cried Grafton. "We can't get up there."

"We'll try," was the answer.

Bending low, his sleeve over his mouth, Kenneth rushed the next flight.
Grafton was at his heels. At the top Kenneth crouched against the last step
and squinted painfully down the corridor in the direction of Mr. Whipple's
room and the flames. The heat was stifling and the smoke rolled toward them
in great red waves. Grafton, choking, coughing, crouched at Kenneth's side.

"We can't reach him," he muttered. "The fire has cut him off."

It seemed true. Mr. Whipple's room was at the far end and between his door
and the stairway the flames were rioting wildly, licking up the woodwork
and playing over the lathes from which the plaster was crumbling away.
Kenneth's heart sank and for an instant he thought he was going to faint.
Everything grew black before him and his head settled down on his
outstretched arm. Then Grafton was shaking him by the shoulder and his
senses returned.

"Come on!" cried Grafton. "Let's get out of this while we can! We'll be
burned alive in a minute!" There was panic in his voice and he tugged
nervously at Kenneth's arm.

At that moment a great expanse of plaster fell from the ceiling some thirty
feet away and the flames glared luridly through the corridor, making
everything for a brief moment as light as day. From below came calls, but
Kenneth did not hear them.

"Look!" he cried, seizing Grafton's arm. "_On the floor! Do you see?_"

"Yes," shouted Grafton. "It's Mr. Whipple! Can we get him?"

"I'm going to try," was the calm reply. "Will you come with me?"

For a moment the two boys looked into each other's eyes, squinting
painfully in the acrid smoke. The flames crackled and roared in their ears.
The strained, terror-stricken look passed from Grafton's face. His eyes
lighted and he even smiled a little.

"Come on," he said simply.

"Wait!" Kenneth leaned down so that his face was against the spindles and
took a deep breath. There was a current of clearer air arising from the
well and, although it smarted in his lungs, it gave him relief. Grafton
followed his example. Then, for they realized that there was no time to
lose, with one accord they rushed, stooping, down the corridor into the
face of the flames.

Mr. Whipple lay stretched face downward on the floor where he had fallen
when overcome by the smoke and, as is more than likely, his terror. He was
in his night clothes and one hand grasped a small satchel. Behind him the
floor was afire scarcely a yard away. The thirty feet from the stairs to
where he lay seemed as many yards to the rescuers, and the heat grew
fiercer at every step. But they gained the goal, fighting for breath,
bending their heads against the savage onslaughts of the flames, and seized
the instructor's arms. Whether he was alive there was no time to ascertain.
There was time for nothing save to strive to drag him toward the stairway.
With tightly closed eyes, from which the smarting tears rolled down their
faces, and sobbing breaths, they struggled back.

But if it had been hard going it was trebly hard returning. The instructor
was not a large man nor a heavy one, but now he seemed to weigh tons. Their
feet slipped on the plaster-sprinkled boards and their hearts hammered in
their throats. Ten feet they made; and then, as though angry at being
deprived of their prey, the flames burst with a sudden roar through the
melting partition a few feet behind them and strove to conquer them with a
scorching breath. Kenneth staggered to his knees under its fury and Grafton
gave a cry of anguish and despair. But the fiery wave receded and they
struggled desperately on, fighting now for their own lives as well as for
that of the instructor.

Ten feet more and the worst was passed. A frenzied rush for the stairway
and safety was in sight. Half falling, half stumbling, they went down the
first few steps to the landing at the turn, Mr. Whipple's inert body
thumping along between them. There, with faces held close to the boards,
they lay drinking in grateful breaths of the smoke-poisoned air, which,
after what they had been inhaling, was fresh and sweet.

Then, above the booming of the fire, voices reached them, hoarse, anxious
voices, and white faces peered up at them through the smoke from the
corridor below.

"All right!" called Kenneth, but, to his surprise, his words were only
hoarse whispers. Struggling to his knees, he seized Mr. Whipple's arm and
strove to go on. But Grafton offered no assistance. He lay motionless where
he had thrown himself on the landing.

"Come on!" croaked Kenneth impatiently, and tugged at his double burden.
Then the crimson light went suddenly out and he subsided limply against the
banisters just as the rescuers dashed up to them.

When Kenneth came to a few minutes later he was being carried across the
campus. Near at hand a fire engine throbbed and roared, sending showers of
sparks into the winter darkness. Behind him a red glare threw long moving
shadows across the grass. In his ears were shouts and commands and a shrill
whistling. Then he lost consciousness again.




VI


Kenneth lay in bed in Dr. Randall's spare chamber. His left hand was
bandaged and a wet cloth lay across his closed eyes. A window was open and
the lowered shade billowed softly up and down, letting into the darkened
room quick splashes of sunlight. From without came the cheerful patter of
melting snow upon the sill.

Kenneth had had his breakfast--how long ago he could not say, since he had
slept since then--and had learned all the exciting news; that Lower House
was so badly burned that there was no question of repairing it; that Mr.
Whipple had been sent to the hospital at Lynnminster, seriously but not
dangerously hurt; that Grafton Hyde had received no damage and was about
this forenoon wearing a strangely blank expression due to the loss of his
eyebrows; and that King, to whose disregard of the rules the fire had been
due, had, previous rumors to the contrary, escaped unharmed.

Kenneth's informant had been the school doctor, who had also imparted the
information that Kenneth's injuries were trifling, a couple of scorched
fingers and a pair of badly inflamed eyes, but that nevertheless he would
kindly spend the day in bed, "as heroes are scarce these days and must be
well looked after when found."

There came a soft tapping at the door and Kenneth peeked eagerly out from
under the bandage as Grafton Hyde entered and tiptoed across the floor.
Kenneth looked for a moment and grinned; then he chuckled; then he threw an
arm across his face and gave way to laughter unrestrained. Grafton laughed,
too, though somewhat ruefully.

"Don't I look like a fool?" he asked.

Kenneth regained his composure with a gasp.

"I--I didn't mean to be rude," he said contritely, "but--"

"Oh, I don't mind," answered Grafton. "Besides, I'll bet you're the same
way."

"Me?" Kenneth looked startled and passed a finger questioningly across his
eyebrows. "There's nothing here!" he gasped. Off came the bandage. "How do
I look?"

A smile started at Grafton's lips and slowly overspread his face. Kenneth
smiled back.

"We must be a pair of freaks," he said, chuckling. "Do they ever grow back
again?"

"Yes, in no time," answered Grafton. "Besides, Joe says that all you have
to do is to take a pencil and rub it over and no one can tell. I'm going to
try it." He sat down cautiously on the edge of the bed. "How are you
feeling!" he asked.

"All right. Kind of tired, though. How about you?"

"Fine." There was a silence during which he played nervously with a shoe
strap. At last:

"I say, Garwood," he blurted, "it's--it's all right about--about that, you
know. I told President Randall."

"You needn't have," muttered Kenneth.

"I wanted to! And I'm sorry. It was a sneaky thing that I did to you. I--I
don't know why I cared so much about staying on the team; I don't now."

"Did he--was he mad about it?"

"Wasn't he! I am to be suspended for a month."

"I'm sorry," said Kenneth honestly. "It--it was decent of you to tell."

"Decent nothing! It was decent of you not to blow on me the other day. Why
didn't you?" he asked curiously.

"Oh, I don't know," answered Kenneth embarrassedly. "I--I didn't like to, I
suppose. When are you going?"

"This afternoon. That's why I came to see you now, I wanted to--to tell you
that I was sorry about it and see if you wouldn't be friends."

"That's all right," said Kenneth. "I--I'm glad you came."

Had they been older they would have shaken hands. As it was they merely
avoided looking at each other and maintained an embarrassed silence for a
moment. It amounted to the same thing.

The silence was broken by a knock on the door.

"Come!" called Kenneth.

"Look at the heroes having a convention," said Joe gayly as he crossed the
floor. "The Society of the Singed Cats! Well, how are you feeling, chum?"

"Fine and dandy," answered Kenneth.

"Good! Say, we had lots of fun last night! They bunked us in with the Upper
House fellows, and maybe there wasn't a circus! Every time we see King we
ask him if it's hot enough for him! I wouldn't be surprised if he folded
his pyjamas like the Arabs--that's all he saved, you know--and as silently
stole away. We've sure got him worried!" He paused and looked inquiringly
from Kenneth to Grafton. "Did Graft tell you?" he asked.

Kenneth nodded.

"I always told you he wasn't a bad sort, didn't I? Don't you care, Graft;
we'll keep a place warm for you, and a month is just a nice vacation.
Wouldn't mind it myself! Say, are you going to be fit to play in Saturday's
game, Kenneth?"

"I don't know. Will they let me?"

"Why not? They haven't anything against you now, have they? How about your
blessed eyes?"

"Oh, they'll be all right, I guess. But I wish--Graft was going to play."

"Oh, I don't care," declared that youth stoutly. "Go in and give 'em fits,
Kenneth. And--one of you fellows might write me about the game," he added
wistfully.

"We'll do it," said Joe. "We'll write a full account and send diagrams of
the broken heads of the Uppers. Only thing I'm afraid of," he added
soberly, "is that now that Kenneth hasn't any eyebrows they may take his
head for the ball!" Kenneth was up the next day feeling as fit as ever, but
when the subject of returning to basketball practice was broached to the
doctor, Kenneth met with disappointment.

"I can't allow it," said the doctor kindly but firmly. "I'm sorry, but you
know we're responsible for you while you're here, my boy, and I think you'd
better keep away from violent exercise for a week or two. No, no more
basket ball this year."

The verdict brought gloom to Lower House, or, as Upper facetiously called
them now, the Homeless Ones. For with Grafton gone and Kenneth out of the
game the team's plight was desperate. But there was no help for it, and so
Jim Marble went to work to patch up the team as best he might, putting
Simms back at guard and placing Niles, a substitute, at right forward.

The Homeless Ones were quartered wherever space could be found for them.
Joe and Kenneth were so fortunate as to get together again in an improvised
bedroom, which had previously been a disused recitation room, at the top of
School Hall. Most of the Lower House residents had saved their principal
effects and those who had lost their clothing were reimbursed by the
school.

Friday morning two announcements of much interest were made.

"On Monday next," said the doctor, "we receive a new member into the
Faculty, Mr. George Howell Fair. Mr. Fair, who is a graduate of Princeton,
will take the place left vacant by the resignation of Mr. Whipple, who was
so unfortunately injured in the recent disaster. Mr. Fair will take up Mr.
Whipple's work where that gentleman left off."

There was a stir throughout chapel, and murmurs of satisfaction. The doctor
picked up another slip of paper, cast his eyes over it and cleared his
throat.

"You will also be pleased to learn," he said, "that in our time of
tribulation generous friends have come to our assistance. We have lost one
of our buildings, but money has already been provided for the erection of a
new and far more suitable one. I have received from Mr. John Garwood, of
Cleveland, and Mr. Peter L. Hyde, of Chicago, a draft for the sum of one
hundred thousand dollars for the erection of a large dormitory capable of
housing the entire student body. The generous gift seems to me especially,
singularly appropriate, coming as it does from the fathers of those two
students who recently so bravely distinguished themselves. With this
thought in mind the Faculty has already decided that the new dormitory when
completed shall be known as Garwood-Hyde Hall."

Well, Kenneth's secret was out! I hope and believe that his fellows held
him in no higher esteem because they found out that he was the son of one
of the country's wealthiest men. But true it is that for the next few days
he was the object of violent interest not altogether unmixed with awe.

But Joe had to have everything explained, and as the shortest means to that
result Kenneth produced a letter which he had received from his father the
day before and gave it to Joe to read. Only portions of it interest us,
however.

"The newspaper account" (ran the letter) "says that neither of you
sustained serious injuries. I trust that it is so. But I think I had better
satisfy myself on that point, and so you may look for me at the school on
Saturday next. Your mother is anxious to have you come home, but I tell her
that a little thing like pulling a professor out of the fire isn't likely
to feaze a Garwood!

"Now, another thing. You recollect that when you decided to go to Hilltop
we talked it over and thought it best to keep dark the fact that you were
my son. You wanted to stand on your own merits, and I wanted you to. Then,
too, we feared that Hyde's boy, because of the misunderstanding between
Peter Hyde and myself, might try to make it uncomfortable for you. That
alarm seems now to have been groundless, since surely a boy who could do
what he did--and join you in doing it--wouldn't be likely to pick on
another. But that's of no consequence now, as it happens.

"Quite by accident I met Peter here the day after the papers published the
story of your little stunt. Well, he was so tickled about it that we shook
hands and had a 'touching reconciliation,' quite like what you see in the
plays. We talked about 'those worthless kids' of ours and it ended up with
his coming home to dinner with me. So you see you did more than save a
professor's life; you brought about a renewal of an old friendship. After
dinner we got to talking it over and decided the least we could do was to
replace that building. So I've sent your principal a draft by this mail
which will cover the cost of a good new hall. I'm giving half and Peter's
giving half. I hope you and young Hyde will be good friends, just as his
father and I are going to be hereafter. You may expect me Saturday."

"Now," cried Joe triumphantly when he had finished reading, "now I
understand about those brushes!"

"What brushes?" asked Kenneth.

"Why, the night of the fire I threw your suit case out of the window, and
when I went down to get it, it had bust open and was full of swell
silver-backed things. I thought at first I'd got some one else's bag, but I
found I hadn't. And I wondered why you hadn't had those brushes out."

"Oh," laughed Kenneth, "I thought they looked a bit too giddy!"




VII


It was Saturday night and the gymnasium was crowded. The Faculty was there
to a man, and with them, the honored guest of the evening, sat Mr. John
Garwood, trying hard to make out what all the fuss was about and looking
more often toward a bench at the side of the hall than toward the
struggling players. On the bench, one of several red-shirted players, sat
Kenneth. He was forbidden to enter the game, but there was nothing to
prevent his wearing his uniform once more and sitting with the substitutes.
But the fellows with him were not all subs. One was Simms, weary and
panting, nursing a twisted ankle which a moment before had put him out of
the game. And Upper House had suffered, too, for across the floor Carl
Jones was viewing the last of the contest from the inglorious vantage of
the side line. Upper and Lower were still shouting hoarsely and singing
doggedly. On the scoreboard the legend ran:

  Upper House 11--Lower House 11.

No wonder every fellow's heart was in his throat! It had been a contest to
stir the most sluggish blood. In spite of the absence of Grafton and
Kenneth, Lower had played a hard, fast game, and had she made a decent per
cent of her tries at goal would have been the winner at this moment. But
Jim Marble had missed almost every goal from foul, and Collier, who had
tried his hand, had been scarcely more successful. And now the score was
tied and it seemed ages agone since the timekeepers had announced one
minute to play.

The ball hovered in the middle of the floor, passed from side to side. Then
Hurd of Upper secured it, and, with a shout to Knox, sped, dribbling, down
the side line. But a red-shirted youth sprang in front of him and the two
went to the floor together, while the ball bounded into the ready hands of
Jim Marble.

"Oh, good work, Joe!" shouted Kenneth, as Joe sprang to his feet and dived
again into the play.

Jim, taking long and desperate chances, tried for a basket from near the
center of the floor and missed by a bare six inches. A groan went up from
the supporters of the Red, while Upper House sighed its relief. Then there
was a mix-up under Upper's goal and the whistle shrilled.

"Double foul!" called the referee.

A sudden stillness fell over the hall. Not a few of the players sank to the
floor where they stood, while Knox picked up the ball and advanced to the
line. Kenneth, watching with his heart in his throat, had a vague
impression of Jim Marble bending across the rail in consultation with one
of the Faculty. Then the ball rose gently from Knox's hands, arched in its
flight and came down square on the rim of the basket. For a moment it
poised there while hearts stood still. Then it toppled gently over the side
to the floor. Knox had missed!

Lower House set up a frantic chorus of triumph. If only Marble or Collier
could succeed where Knox had failed! But neither Jim nor the left guard was
going to try, it seemed. For over at the Red's bench a lithe form was
peeling off his sweater, and in a moment the cry swept the hall:

"Garwood's going to throw! Garwood! Garwood!"

"It's all right," Jim had whispered. "I asked the doc. Do your best. If you
make it we win, Garwood!"

Kenneth, his pulses far from calm, walked out on the floor and picked up
the ball. The shouting died away and the sudden stillness seemed appalling.
He toed the black streak across the boards and measured the distance to the
basket. Then, his legs astraddle, his knees slightly bent, he swung the
ball once--twice--

There was a moment of suspense, and then--

Then pandemonium broke loose! The ball dropped to the floor unheeded, but
above it the tattered meshes of the netting swayed where it had struck them
going through! It was the cleanest kind of a basket, and it won the game
and the series and the Shield for Lower House!

Kenneth, fighting off the howling fellows who would have perched him on
their shoulders, caught a glimpse of his father's amused face, and broke
for the stairway.




THE PROVING OF JERRY


"I'm awfully sorry," said Ned Gaynor earnestly, "but it isn't as though you
had been blackballed, Jerry."

"I don't see what difference it makes," replied Gerald Hutton
disconsolately. "I don't get taken in, do I?"

"No, but when a fellow's name is 'postponed' he can try again any time. If
he's blackballed, he's a goner until next year."

"Oh, well, I don't want to join the old Lyceum, anyhow," said his roommate
with a scowl.

"Yes, you do," responded Ned, "and I want you to. And I'm going to bring
your name up again just as soon as I think there's a chance of getting you
elected."

"When will that be?" asked Jerry dubiously. Ned hesitated.

"I don't just know, Jerry," he answered finally. "You see, it's like this;
the Lyceum is the only society we have here at Winthrop, and it's small,
only thirty members, you know, while there are over seventy fellows in
school this year. So of course there are lots of chaps who want to get in.
And when it comes to selecting members the society naturally tries to get
the best."

"Which means I'm not one of the best," said Jerry with a grin.

"No, it doesn't," replied his roommate. "It just means that you aren't very
well known yet; you haven't proved yourself."

"Shucks! I've been here ever since school opened in September, and I know
almost every fellow here to speak to."

"Well, but that isn't quite what I mean," replied Ned. "You--you haven't
proved yourself."

"What do you mean by 'proved myself'?" asked Jerry.

"Well, you haven't done anything to--to show what you are. I can't explain
very well, but--"

"What the dickens do you want me to do? Burn down Academy Hall or chuck one
of the Faculty in the river?" inquired Jerry sarcastically.

"Oh, you know what I mean," answered Ned a trifle impatiently. "Sooner or
later a fellow does something worth while, like getting a scholarship or
making the Eleven or the Baseball Team. Then he's proved himself. You've
been here only half a year, and, of course, yon haven't made yourself
known."

"I've done my best," replied Jerry disconsolately. "I worked like a slave
for two weeks trying to get on the Football Team, and I almost broke my
neck learning to skate well enough so I'd have a show for the Hockey Team."

"Maybe you'll make the Nine," said Ned hopefully. "I guess if you do that
there won't be any trouble about the Lyceum."

"I'll never get on the Nine while Herb Welch is captain," said Jerry with a
shake of his head. "He doesn't care for me much."

"Well, I guess that's so," answered Ned thoughtfully. "The fact is, Jerry,
it was Herb who objected to your election to the Lyceum."

"I guessed as much," Jerry replied dryly. "I knew he'd keep me out if he
could. Just as he will keep me off the Nine."

"Oh, come now, Herb isn't that bad. He's sort of rough and bossy, but he's
straight, Jerry. He was very decent at the election. He simply said--"

"I don't want to hear what he said," interrupted Jerry peevishly. "He's a
big bully. He's hated me ever since I interfered the time he was ducking
young Gordon. Gordon couldn't swim, and he was so scared that his face was
as white as that block of paper."

"Well, it was pretty cheeky for a Sophomore to lay down the law to a
Senior, you know," said Ned.

"And it was pretty mean of a Senior to haze a Freshman, wasn't it?" Jerry
demanded. "Anyhow, I spoiled his fun for him."

"And got ducked yourself," laughed the other.

"That was all right. I could swim and wasn't afraid. I was better able to
take it than young Gordon was. Ever since then Welch has had it in for me.
I dare say that if I went and licked his boots he'd let me into the Lyceum
and give me a fair show for the Nine, but I'm not going to do it. I can
play baseball, and I'd like to make the team, but if it depends on my
toadying to Welch, why, I'll stay off, that's all."

"Oh, come now, it isn't as bad as that," responded Ned. "Don't you bother.
I'll get you elected before Class Day, Jerry. Grab your skates and come on
down to the river."

"Skates!" exclaimed Jerry. "Why, you can't skate to-day. The ice is all
breaking up. Look at it!"

From the dormitory window the river was visible for a quarter of a mile as
it curved slowly to the south between Winthrop Academy and the town bridge.
It was late February, and for two days the mercury had lingered around
fifty degrees. Along the nearest shore the ice still held, but in midstream
and across by the Peterboro side the river, swollen by melting snow and
ice, flowed in a turbid, ice-strewn torrent. For a while at noon the sun
had shone, but now, at four o'clock, the clouds had gathered and the moist
air coming in at the open window of the room suggested rain.

"There's plenty of ice along this bank," answered Ned cheerfully, "and as
it may be the last chance I'll get to skate I'm going to make the most of
it. I promised Tom Thurber and Herb Welch I'd meet them at four. I must get
a move on." He closed the book before him and arose from the study table.
"You'd better come along, Jerry."

But Jerry shook his head, staring moodily out over the dreary prospect of
wet campus and slushy road. A mile away the little town of Peterboro lay
straggling along the river, the chimneys of its three or four factories
spouting thick black smoke into the heavy air. Jerry was disappointed. It
meant a good deal to win election to the Lyceum, and, in spite of what he
had told Ned, he had all along entertained a sneaking idea that he would
make it, Welch or no Welch. He wondered whether Ned couldn't have got him
in if he had tried real hard. Ned and he were very good friends, even
though they had never met until they had been roomed together in the fall,
but Jerry was a new boy still, while Ned was a Junior and had known Herb
Welch three years.

"I suppose," he thought, "Ned didn't want to offend Welch. Much he cares
whether I'm elected or not!"

"Coming?" asked Ned, pausing at the door. Jerry shook his head.

"No, I guess not. I think I'll walk over to town and get some things."

"Well, buy me half a dozen blue books, will you?" asked Ned eagerly. He
tossed a coin across and Jerry caught it deftly and dropped it into his
pocket with a nod. Ned slammed the door behind him and went clattering
downstairs. Jerry watched him emerge below, jump a miniature rivulet
flowing beside the board walk and disappear around the corner of the
dormitory. Then he got into his sweater, put his cap on, and in turn
descended the stairs.

It was a good twenty-minutes walk to the village. By keeping along the
river path to the bridge he might have saved something in time and
distance, but the river path was ankle-deep in slush and mud, while the
road, although longer, gave firmer foothold. When he reached the old wooden
bridge he paused and watched the water rushing under between the stone
pillars. He had never seen the stream so high. The surface appeared
scarcely eight feet beneath the floor of the bridge. Huge cakes of ice,
broken loose upstream, went tearing by, grinding against each other and
hurling themselves at the worn stones. And between the fragments of ice the
surface was almost covered with a layer of slush. Jerry flattened himself
against the wooden railing while a team of sweating horses, tugging a great
load of hay, went creaking by him. Then he followed it across and turned to
the right at the end of the bridge into the main street of the town.

His purchases didn't take him long, and soon he was back at the bridge
again. Upstream, on the Academy side of the river, he could see the
skaters. Apparently half the school had decided to seize this last chance
for indulging in the sport, for the long and narrow strip of ice remaining
was quite black with figures. At the end of the bridge Jerry decided to
take the river path, for a glance at his shoes and stockings convinced him
that it was no longer necessary to consider them; they were already as wet
and muddy as it was possible for them to be. He felt rather more cheerful
after his tramp, and told himself that if there was time he would run up to
the room, leave his purchases, get his skates, and join the group on the
ice. By the time he had covered half the distance between bridge and
Academy he could distinguish several of the skaters. There was Morris, with
his blue sweater, and the tall fellow was, of course, Jim Kennedy; and
there was Burns, and young Gordon; Gordon, even if he couldn't swim, was a
dandy skater.

"Only," thought Jerry, "if he got into the river it would be a bad outlook
for him."

He had left the bridge a full quarter of a mile behind when a sudden
commotion among the skaters attracted his attention. There was a scurrying
together and the skating stopped. Jerry paused and watched intently, but
for a moment saw nothing to account for the actions of the fellows. They
were lined up along the edge of the ice in little groups. Then several of
them turned and skated frantically toward the bank. Jerry's first thought
now was that some one had fallen into the water, that the ice had given
way, as it was quite likely to do in its present half-rotten state, and he
looked anxiously for young Gordon's slight figure. He couldn't see him, but
that signified little, since the fellows were packed together and the light
was failing.

But in another instant Jerry saw that his surmise was wrong. For suddenly a
single figure came into view, a figure huddled on hands and knees a full
fifty feet away from his companions. For an instant Jerry couldn't
understand. Then the huddled figure was swept farther away toward the
opposite shore and a clear expanse of angry river showed between it and
those on the ice. One of the fellows had ventured too far, the ice had
broken away, and now he was being borne swiftly down the stream! Already
the current had swept him away from all hope of assistance from his
companions, for up there the channel ran close to the Peterboro shore. The
fragment of ice to which he clung seemed to be fairly large, perhaps ten
feet long by half that in width, but Jerry knew that the chance of its
remaining unbroken for long was very slim. If the fellows had gone for a
boat they might have saved themselves the effort, for no boat could be
managed in that seething mass of broken ice. And a rope would be quite as
useless, since the current would keep the boy along the farther shore and
no one on earth could throw a coil of rope half the distance.

Jerry had already broken into a run, but now he pulled himself up and
glanced behind him toward the bridge. He could be of no more use up there
than were the fellows grouped helplessly at the edge of the ice. If the boy
was to be rescued it must be downstream somewhere, always supposing the
cake of ice hung together and that he managed to retain his place on it.
Jerry thought rapidly with fast-beating heart. Already the boy on the ice
had covered half the distance to where Jerry stood, and the fellows up
there where the accident had happened were leaving the ice, frantically
freeing themselves from their skates and running down the path. Jerry
turned and ran back the way he had come. If he could reach the bridge first
there might be a chance!

His feet slipped in the ice and slush of the path and it was slow going.
Once he fell flat on his face, but was up again in a twinkling, wet and
bruised. A glance over his shoulder told him that the pitching, whirling
slag of ice with its human burden was gaining on him. If only he had
started before! he thought. But he ran on, sliding and tripping, his breath
coming hard and his heart pounding agonizedly against his ribs. He was
almost there now; only another hundred yards or so remained between him and
the end of the bridge. He prayed for strength to keep on as he glanced
again over his shoulder. The boy had thrown himself face down on the ice
and Jerry saw with a sinking heart that already the cake had diminished in
size. If it struck one of the stone pillars of the bridge it would go to
pieces without a doubt, and it would be a hard task for the strongest
swimmer to battle his way clear of that rushing current.

With his breath almost failing him, Jerry reached the bridge and ran out
upon it. He was none too soon. Close to the farther shore the jagged
fragment still held together as it dipped and turned, glancing from the
jutting points of the shore ice and grinding between its fellows in the
ugly green torrent. Face down lay the boy, limp, his hands outthrown beside
him. Under the bridge the river rushed with a loud rushing sound, swift and
relentless.

Jerry ran with aching limbs to the third span, toward which the current was
bearing the helpless, huddled figure. In the brief moment of time left him
Jerry noted two things. One was that those in the van of the straggling
line hurrying toward him along the river path were but a couple of hundred
yards distant. The other was that his left shoulder was aching dully. He
must, he thought, have struck on it when he fell. Then his gaze was on the
motionless form sweeping toward him, and he was leaning over the wooden
rail, his hands at his mouth.

"Stand up!" he cried with all his might.

But there was no answering movement from the boy. Jerry's heart sank, but
once more he shouted, putting, as it seemed to him, every remaining bit of
breath into his call:

"_Stand up and I'll save you_!"

The head raised and a white face gazed up at him as the narrowing current
seized the ice fragment. With a gasp of surprise Jerry looked down into the
horror-stricken eyes of Herbert Welch! Then he had thrown himself down on
the floor of the bridge, his head and shoulders over the water.

"_Stand up_!" he called again. And Welch staggered weakly to his knees, the
ice beneath him tilting perilously. Jerry's hands stretched down over the
rushing water.

"_Catch hold!_" he cried.

A momentary return of hope and courage came to Welch, and as his
treacherous craft shot, crushing and grinding, into the maelstrom, he found
his feet for a moment, and threw his arms above his head, his fingers
clutching hungrily at the empty air. Then a corner of the ice fragment
struck against the left-hand pillar and he lost his balance. But in that
brief moment Jerry's left hand had grasped one of Welch's wrists, and now
the latter hung between bridge and water, swinging slowly and limply. Then
Jerry's right hand found a hold below his left, and he set his teeth and
closed his eyes, praying, as he had done before on the river path, for
strength and endurance. The strain was terrible. He felt the blood rushing
to his head and throbbing there mightily.

His left shoulder hurt worse every moment. But he could hold on a moment
longer. Surely the others would be here in just a second. He thought he
heard cries, but the roar of the water beneath and the throbbing in his
head made it uncertain. Then he heard a voice. It was Herb Welch speaking.

"Let me go, Hutton," said Welch quietly. "You can't hold me here."

Jerry tried to answer, but the pressure against his chest was too severe.
His left hand began to slip from Welch's wrist; the fingers wouldn't hold;
there was a strange numbness from hand to shoulder. With a smothered groan
he tried to tighten his clasp again. Then help came. Eager hands took his
burden, and he felt himself being pulled back from the edge. He glanced up
once and had a glimpse of somber twilight sky and Ned's brown eyes....

When he opened his eyes again he was lying on a couch in a cottage at the
edge of the village. There were several figures about him, and one was
Ned's. He smiled and tried to rise, but was glad to lay back again and look
curiously at his bandaged shoulder.

"It's only a busted collarbone," said Ned. "Doctor says it will be all
right in two or three weeks. We're going to take you back in a minute. The
carriage is coming now."

"That's nice," said Jerry drowsily. "How's Welch?"

"Not hurt a bit. He walked home. And say, Jerry," Ned went on, dropping his
voice, "it's all right about the Lyceum. Herb says he's going to bring your
name up himself at the next meeting. You--you proved yourself to-day, old
chum!"






McTURKLE, THE BAND


We had had hard luck at Harvard all that fall. First Phinney, our 208-pound
left guard, dislocated his shoulder in the Indian game; then Hobb, full
back, got a swat on the head that sent him to the Infirmary for two weeks;
then Jones, our best half, hurt his leg. Those were the principal troubles,
but there were lots of smaller ones besides. Every team that came to
Cambridge did something to us; if they didn't beat us they scored; if they
didn't score they laid up one or two of our men just to show that there was
no hard feeling. Then Penn rubbed it into us good and hard--which wasn't
the way it was written--and about half the college began writing letters to
the _Crimson_.

To make matters look worse, Yale had the best team she had had in several
years; in fact, since the Gordon Browne aggregation. And our chance of
winning from her was about one in one hundred. But we were a daffy lot that
fall, and every time fate smote us we grinned harder and hitched up the
enthusiasm another peg. On the Thursday before the game we had our fourth
mass meeting in the Union. The captain, very much embarrassed, assured us
that every man on the team was ready to do his level best and lay down his
life for the honor of the Crimson--a fact which we knew before, but which
we applauded wildly. Then the trainer told us that every "mon on the tame"
was in the best physical condition, something which we seriously doubted,
but which we also applauded wildly. Then the head coach informed us that it
was a great sight to see the college get together in this way and that if
we stood loyally behind the team on Saturday the team would do its part and
fight to the last breath--or ditch, I forget which. We applauded _that_
more wildly. Then the captain of the Nine got up, brushed the perspiration
from his marble brow, and started the singing. The University Band, eleven
strong, got together after a fashion and we pretty near lifted the roof.
After that we cheered and sung some more and the enthusiasm kept on
bubbling up. Finally, a lot of us in the back of the room yelled in unison:

"We--want--another--meeting--to-morrow-night!"

"So-do-we!" yelled the others.

And we kept that up until the leader told us we could have it. And
presently we stood up and sang "Fair Harvard"--or as much as we knew of
it--and broke up.

In the morning the _Crimson_ contained a notice which said that there would
be no meeting that night. But we didn't believe it, because the meeting had
been agreed upon. At least, a good many of us didn't. Some did, though, I
guess, for at eight the room wasn't more than half full. We sat there and
waited a while and did a little singing and cheering. But no one got on the
platform to talk to us, and the band didn't show up. So about a quarter to
nine we moseyed outside. But we were still full of enthusiasm, and we
wanted to work it off. So we stood around, about eight hundred of us, and
informed the world at large that we wanted the band. No one seemed to care.
But, of course, every minute the crowd got bigger, just as it always will
if you get out and yell something. After a bit we decided to do without the
band, and so we formed in fours and marched over to the yard, singing and
cheering like mad.

After we'd marched around twice we had depopulated the buildings. Fellows
put their heads out of windows, had a look, yelled enthusiastically, turned
the gas up high, and tumbled downstairs and into line. By a quarter past
nine we had easily two thousand fellows in the procession. And when you get
that many together something simply _has_ to happen.

"What we need," said Bud, "is a band."

"But we can't get one," answered Withey.

"Then let's get part of a band."

"Where?"

"McTurkle," answered Bud, with a grin.

"A-a-aye!" we yelled. "McTurkle! We want McTurkle!"

So we left the gang yelling themselves hoarse in front of the university
and scooted over to our dormitory. McTurkle was in. He was sitting at his
table with a green drop light casting a wan glow over his classic features.
The table was piled high with all sorts of books, and you could just hear
McTurkle's wheels go round. When we walked in he slipped the glasses from
his nose by wriggling his eyebrows and turned around and looked at us
blinking.

McTurkle was a funny genius. He was forever grinding. When he wasn't
grinding he was causing strange, painful sounds to emanate from his room.
For a good while we had puzzled over those sounds. Then, finally, one
fateful night, we had descended upon McTurkle in force and learned the
truth. McTurkle performed on the French horn. A French horn is an
instrument which is wound up in a knot like a morning-glory vine, and the
notes have such a hard time getting out that they get all balled up and
confused and are never the same afterwards. I'm not musical, and don't
pretend to be, but I'll bet a hat that the man who invented the French horn
was the same chap who invented French verbs. Well, we made McTurkle take a
solemn oath never to practice after seven o'clock, because it was simply
impossible to remember anything with those sounds sobbing along the entry.
He was frightfully apologetic and promised at once.

When we went in Bud winked at us to leave the negotiations in his hands. We
did so, drawing up in a semicircle behind him and looking very grave.

"McTurkle," said Bud, "we have come to you on behalf of the university."

McTurkle blinked harder than ever and looked a bit scared.

"Out there"--Bud waved his hand toward the window--"out there our
college--your college--the college we all love awaits you."

McTurkle gasped and tried to find his glasses, which were hanging over the
back of his chair at the end of a black cord which he wore around his neck.

"McTurkle," continued Bud, tensely, "as you know, we are on the eve of a
great conflict. Tomorrow the pick of our athletic young manhood does battle
with the brawny horde of Yale. Defeat looms ominous above--upon the
horizon, but the unconquerable spirit of Harvard arises triumphant
and--er--flaps its flaming pinions!"

"A-a-aye!" murmured Withey.

McTurkle found his glasses, fixed them on his lean nose, and regarded Bud
with genuine alarm.

"Not for a moment do we acknowledge defeat, sir! Not until the pall of
evening settles over the trampled field of battle shall we abandon hope.
The university stands firm and undismayed behind her loyal warriors.
Listen, McTurkey--McTurkle, I mean!"

Bud held up a hand imperiously and we all listened, McTurkle with his mouth
wide open and his near-sighted eyes fixed in fascination upon the speaker's
face. From outside came a long, impatient wail from two thousand throats:

"We-want-to-go-to-the-Stadium!"

"What of that, McTurkle!" demanded Bud, sternly. "The spirit of Harvard
speaks! Her sons demand to be led to the scene of the conflict that with
mighty voices they may--er--consecrate the field to victory!"

"But--but--what is it you wish me to do?" stammered the dazed McTurkle,
visibly affected.

"To lead them!" thundered Bud.

"Lead them?" cried McTurkle. "Who? Me? Me--ah--lead?"

"Ah! You, McTurkle! You, with your French horn!"

"You--you want me to play it?"

"We do. The college calls for you. Your duty, McTurkle, your duty to that
college, to your fellows, summons you. Listen, McTurkle, to the voice of
Duty and Patriotism!"

Apparently McTurkle's manner of listening was to hold his mouth open. He
held it open now, wide open. Also his eyes. At last he said:

"But--but--I'm afraid I don't know any of the--ah--the college airs."

"What of that! It is your leadership we want; that and the inspiring
strains of your dulcet horn. Play what you will, McTurkle, only play.
Remember that the success of the team may depend upon you! That to-night it
is our duty and pleasure to show the team that the whole college is behind
them, eager and loyal in its support!"

Never before in three years of college life had any one ever wanted
McTurkle to do anything. And now the knowledge that the whole university
demanded his aid, his leadership, was too much for McTurkle. His face
glowed; he leaped to his feet; a Greek lexicon crashed to the floor;
McTurkle was transformed.

"I'll go!" he said, with majestic simplicity.

We cheered.

McTurkle feverishly wrested his French horn from its green bag, settled his
glasses upon his aquiline nose, turned up the collar of his plaid lounging
coat, and strode to the door.

We followed in triumph.

Over in front of the university they had cheered every one and everything,
and now they were forming again into line of march.

"On to Soldier's Field!" they cried.

We hurried across to the head of the procession, McTurkle's long legs
making us work hard to keep up with him. Arrived, Bud waved an arm for
silence.

"Fellows!" he shouted. "Fellows!"

And when silence had fallen about us he swept his hand dramatically toward
McTurkle.

"Gentlemen," he cried, "the band!"

"A-a-a-aye!" they cheered. "Band! band!"

"Where's the band?" called those further down the line, and the news
traveled fast until from far down by Thayer came wild paeans of delight.

"Where'd they get it? ... Where is it? ... We want 'On Soldier's
Field'! ... We want 'Veritas'! ... Strike up! Move on, there! ...
'Ray for the band! ... A-a-a-aye! Band! band!"

Up at the head of the line we were all laughing and shouting for fair.
McTurkle, beaming delightedly through his glasses, his head held back
inspiritingly and the folds of his plaid jacket waving in the November
wind, placed the French horn to his lips, took a mighty breath and--the
procession moved forward to the strains of "Annie Laurie!"

Now, I've heard since then that the French horn has a compass of only four
octaves and is principally useful as an orchestral adjunct; that, in short,
its ability is limited and its use as a solo instrument slight. All I can
say is that the person who said that doesn't know a French horn; anyway, he
doesn't know McTurkle's French horn. Four octaves be blowed! McTurkle went
fourteen, or I'll eat my hat! Why, the way he put that thing through its
paces was a caution! And as for--er--variations and such!--well, you ought
to have heard him, that's all I've got to say!

Out into the avenue we turned, through the Square and down Boylston Street.
The line was so long that the cars were held up for ten minutes, and Bud
was for circling back and holding them up ten minutes more. And all the
while McTurkle, thin, gaunt, but impressive, marched at the head and
informed us startlingly and with convincing emphasis that for Bonnie Annie
Laurie he'd lay him down and dee. And we took up the refrain, and hurled it
back to the gray November sky. Further along they were singing, "Hard luck
for poor old Eli," and still further down the line they were informing the
dark front of the post office that the sun would set in Crimson as the sun
had set before. And way, way back they were cheering like Sam Hill.

Oh, that was a glorious night! Talk about enthusiasm! We had it and to
burn. We exuded it at every step. Enthusiasm was a drug on the market. Down
by the river McTurkle gave Annie Laurie her final death blow and started in
on the overture to "Martha." That carried us as far as the Locker Building,
and we marched on to Soldiers' Field to the inspiriting strains of a
selection from "Traviata." McTurkle told me what they were afterwards;
that's how I know. Around the gridiron we marched once, the band still
clinging to "Traviata" and the fellows singing whatever pleased them,
generally "Up the Street." Then we had a snake dance, a wonder of a snake
dance! The band got lost in the shuffle, but later on we found him standing
serene and undismayed under the shadow of the west stand spouting "Auld
Lang Syne" till you couldn't see.

Then Bud climbed up on to the edge of the Stadium and we did some more
cheering, and when he called for "a regular cheer for the band" the way we
hit it up was a caution.

Back in the Square, Bud led us over in front of the "Coop," mainly, I
guess, so we would stop the cars for a while. We had some more cheering
then, and then Bud leaped up on the steps and announced "Speech by
McTurkle!"

Nobody except a few of us knew who McTurkle was, but everyone cheered
gloriously. We conducted McTurkle gently but firmly up the steps, and when
the crowd got a good look at him they simply went crazy. McTurkle was
deeply affected. So was the crowd.

"Speech! speech!" they yelled. "Spe-e-eech!" McTurkle, embarrassed but
courageous, his voice faint and tremulous with emotion, spoke.

"Gentlemen," he began.

"Apologize! ... Take it back! ... Who is he? ... It's the band! ... 'Ray
for the band! ... Go on! Say it!"

"Fellows," prompted Bud.

"Fellows," repeated McTurkle.

Deafening applause.

"I wish to thank you for this--ah--this flattering evidence of--shall I say
esteem?"

"Don't say it if it hurts you, old man," some one advised.

"What's he talking about?" asked another.

"I appreciate the honor you have done me," continued McTurkle, warming to
his work. "And it has been a pleasure, a great pleasure, as well as a
privilege, to lead you this evening in your interesting--ah--exercises."

"A-a-a-aye!" yelled the audience.

"There is to be, I understand," said McTurkle, "a game to-morrow, a contest
between this college and--ah--Yale."

Laughter and deafening applause.

"While lack of opportunity has kept me from a personal participation in
your games and sports, yet I am heartily in sympathy with them. Physical
exercise is, I am convinced, of great benefit. In conclusion let me say
that I trust that in tomorrow's game of baseball--"

"Football, you blamed fool!" whispered Bud, hoarsely.

"Ah--I should say football--the mantle of victory will fall upon the
shoulders of our--ah--representatives. I thank you."

McTurkle bowed with gentle dignity.

"What's his name?" cried a chap below.

"McTurkle," answered Bud.

"Wha-a-at?"

"McTurkle!"

"Cheer for McTurkey!" demanded the questioner.

"A-a-aye!" cried the throng.

Bud leaped to the top step.

"Regular cheer, fellows, for McTurkle!" he cried. And it came.

"Har-_vard!_ Har-_vard!_ Har-_vard!_ Rah, rah, rah! Rah, rah, rah! Rah,
rah, rah! The Turkey! The Turkey! The Turkey!"

Then we went home.

I suppose this isn't much of a story, especially as there is no climax; and
I've taken enough English to know that there ought to be some sort of a
climax somewhere. Maybe, though, what happened next day will serve for one.

I got halfway over to the field and found I had forgotten my ticket, and
had to go back to the room for it. McTurkle's door was ajar and through it
came those awful sounds. I kicked it open and stuck my head in.

"Hello," I said. "Do you know what time it is? You'll be late."

McTurkle took the French horn from his face and wiped the mouthpiece gently
with a silk handkerchief.

"Late?" he asked.

"Yes, for the game. You're going, of course, McTurkle?"

He shook his head, beaming affably through his glasses.

"No, no, I'm not going to attend the--ah--game." He waved a hand toward the
book-covered table. "I shall be quite busy this afternoon, quite busy. But
you have my--my best wishes. May the--ah--the mantle of victory fall upon
the shoulders--"

Well, we got licked that day. But, say, honest now, it wasn't McTurkle's
fault, was it?




THE TRIUMPH OF "CURLY"


"Curly" sat with head in hands, elbows on desk, and eyes fixed unseeingly
on the half-opened door. The afternoon sunlight made golden shafts across
the rows of empty seats. The windows were open, and with the sunlight came
the songs of birds, the incessant hum of insects, and occasionally a quick,
rattling cheer.

On the playground, under the bluest of blue skies, with a fresh,
clover-perfumed breeze fanning their dripping brows, the boys of Willard's
School were playing the third and deciding game of baseball with the nine
of Durham Academy. But Curly neither heard the cheering nor had thought for
the contest.

Curly's real name was Isaac Newton Stone. He had taken the "A.M." degree
the preceding June at a Western university, and had entered his name in the
long list of those wishing to be teachers.

As the summer had advanced his hope had waned. September found him without
a position. During the fall and early winter he waited with what philosophy
he could summon, and had studied doggedly, having in view the attainment of
a Ph. D.

Then, in February, an unforeseen vacancy at Willard's School had given him
his place as instructor in Greek and German.

It is a matter of principle at Willard's to haze new teachers. No exception
was made in the case of Isaac Newton Stone, A. M.

He was twenty-three years old, but looked several years younger. He was
small, slight and wiry, with pale blue eyes, a tip-tilted nose and a fresh
pink-and-white complexion. His hair was of an indeterminate shade between
brown and sand-color, and it curled closely over his head like a baby's.
Three days after his advent at Willard's he had become universally known as
Curly.

Former teachers at Willard's, with experience to guide them, had tolerated
the hazing process, if not with enjoyment, at least with apparent good
humor. But Curly, a novice, thought he saw his authority endangered, his
dignity assailed. The ringleaders in the affair, five in number, were
placed upon probation in exactly two seconds.

The class gasped. Such a thing had never happened before. The hazing died a
violent death, and Curly sprang into sudden fame as a tyrant.

The role of iron-heeled despot was least of all suited to Curly or desired
by him, but having momentarily adopted it, he had to continue it. He dared
not take the frown from his face for a moment; intimidation was his only
course.

Meanwhile the faculty viewed events with dissatisfaction. Once or twice
Curly's punishments were not upheld. In May he was informed that unless he
could maintain discipline without such severity the faculty would be forced
to the painful necessity of asking his resignation. His election, the
principal explained kindly, had been in the nature of an experiment, and
unsuccessful experiments must of course be terminated.

The experiment was unsuccessful. It was June now, and class day was but two
weeks distant. This morning there had been trouble in the German class, and
as a result, two students had been placed on probation. The fact that one
of them, Rogers, was the best pitcher in school, and that the loss of his
services would in all likelihood mean the defeat of Willard's nine in this
decisive game was most unfortunate. To be sure, Rogers had merited his
punishment, but the school failed to consider that, and indignation ran
high.

Curly himself, seated in the silent class room, acknowledged failure at
last. He looked at his watch. It was quarter past three. With a sigh he
drew paper toward him, dipped pen in ink and began to write.

The letter was brief, yet it took him nearly ten minutes. When at last it
was finished, lacking only the signature, he read it over. He had made no
attempt at explanation or extenuation, but had thanked the faculty for
their kindness and patience, regretted their disappointment, and begged
them to accept his resignation. He subscribed himself "Respectfully yours,
Isaac Newton Stone," sealed the letter and addressed it to the principal.

This done, he gathered his books, took up his hat and stepped from the
platform. Footsteps sounded in the echoing corridor, and a flushed,
perspiring face peered into the room. Then a boy of sixteen hurried up the
aisle.

"Mr. Stone, sir," he cried, "will you help us? It's the beginning of the
sixth inning, and the score's eight to six in our favor. They've knocked
Willings out of the box, sir, and we haven't anyone else. Apthorpe's cousin
says you can pitch, and--and we want to know if you won't play for us,
sir?" He ended with a gasp for breath.

"But--I don't quite understand!"

"Why, sir, we held 'em down until the fifth, and then they made six runs.
Maybe they've scored some more. If you could only come right away!"

"But who said I could pitch, Turner?"

"Tom Apthorpe's cousin, sir; he's down for Sunday."

"But how did he know?"

"Why, sir, he knew you at college, and--"

"What's his name?"

"Harris, sir. He said--"

"Jack Harris!" The instructor's eyes lighted. He tossed the books on the
desk. "Run back and tell them I'll come as soon as I leave this note at Dr.
Willard's."

There came a cheer from the playground. It was not a Willard cheer.

Turner listened dismayed. "Couldn't you come now, sir?" he begged. "It may
be too late. They're batting like anything. Couldn't you leave the note
afterwards, sir!"

"Well, may be I could," said Curly. He dropped it into his pocket, put on
his hat and strode down the aisle. "Come on, Turner!" he cried.

Along the terrace of the playground, under the elms, were gathered the
spectators--the boys of both schools and their friends. At the foot of the
terrace, just back of first base, a striped awning warded off the sunlight
from a little group of professors and their families. On the field the
blue-stockinged players of Willard's were scattered about, and on a bench
behind third base a row of boys wearing the red of Durham Academy awaited
their turns at bat. This much Curly saw as he crossed the terrace.

Then a tall, broad-shouldered man came toward him with a pleasant smile and
outstretched hand. Curly recognized Harris, and sprang down the steps to
meet him. At college they had been hardly more than acquaintances, yet
to-day they met almost like fast friends.

"I never thought to find you in this part of the world, Stone," said
Harris. "I'm awfully glad to see you again. You're badly needed. Tom
Apthorpe, my cousin, was bewailing the fact that he hadn't anyone to pitch.
I saw that Durham was playing her professor of mathematics on first base,
and asked him if there wasn't anyone in the faculty who could take
Willings's place. Willings is used up, as you can see. Tom said there was
no one unless "--Harris paused and grinned--"unless it was Curly. He didn't
know whether you could play or not. Inquiries elicited the astounding fact
that 'Curly' was none other than Newt Stone, pitcher and star batsman on
our old class nine. I told him to hurry up and get you out. And so, for
goodness' sake, Stone, get into the box and strike out some of those boys
from Durham! The score's eight to eight now, and if they get that man on
second in they'll have a good grip on the game and championship."

"I'm afraid I'm all out of practice," objected Curly. "I haven't handled a
ball for two years, but I'll do what I can. I wish you'd come round to my
room afterwards and have a talk, if you've nothing better to do."

Time had been called, and Apthorpe, who was both captain and catcher, ran
across to them.

"It's good of you, Mr. Stone," he said, wiping the perspiration from his
face. "I don't think we fellows have much right to ask you to help us out,
but if you'll do it for the school, sir, everyone will be mighty glad."

"For the school!" Curly wondered rather bitterly what the school had done
for him that he should come to her rescue. But he only answered gravely:

"I'll do what I can, Apthorpe."

He threw aside his coat and waistcoat and tightened his belt. Then he
walked across the diamond and picked the ball from the ground.

On the terrace bank a boy armed with a blue and white flag jumped to his
feet, and amidst a ripple of clapping from the audience above, called for
"three times three for Curl--for Mr. Stone!" There was a burst of laughter,
but the cheer that followed was hearty.

The batsman stepped out of the box and Curly delivered half a dozen balls
to Apthorpe to get his hand in. Then the two met and agreed on a few simple
signals, the umpire called, "Play!" and the game went on again.

It was the first half of the sixth inning; the score was eight to eight;
there was one man out, a runner on second, and Durham's left fielder at
bat.

Curly looked over the field, glanced carelessly at the runner, turned, and
sent a swift, straight ball over the plate. Durham's players were eager for
just that sort, and the batsman made a long, clean hit into the outfield
between first and second.

When the new pitcher got the ball again the man on second had gone to
third, and Durham's left fielder was jumping about on first.

Durham's next man up was her catcher. Curly strove to wipe out the
intervening two years and to imagine himself back at college, pitching for
his class in the final championship game. But alas! his arm was stiff and
muscle-bound, and creaked in the socket every time he threw.

There was a wild pitch that was just saved from being a passed ball by a
brilliant stop of Apthorpe's; then the batsman hit an infield fly and was
caught out.

"Two gone, fellows!" shouted the captain.

The runner on first took second unmolested, and the Durham coaches yelled
themselves hoarse. But Curly was not to be rattled in that way; and
besides, the stiffness was wearing out of his arm. He set his lips together
and pitched the ball.

"Strike!" cried the umpire. Willard's cheered vociferously. Then came a
ball. Then another strike. Then the batter swung with all his might at a
slow, curving ball--and missed it.

"Striker's out!" called the umpire.

Willard's rose as one man and cheered to the echo. In the tent the
principal and his associates forgot their dignity for an instant, and added
their shouts to the general acclaim. The new pitcher, his eyes sparkling,
retired to the bench.

The fielders, as they joined him, shot curious and admiring glances toward
him. Harris leaned over the bench and talked with him about the incidents
of old college games. And the boys near by listened, while the curly-haired
instructor grew before their eyes into an athletic hero.

The last of the sixth inning ended without a score. Pretty as it was to
watch, the first of the seventh would make tame history. Not a Durham
player reached first base. One--two--three was the way they struck out.

Curly's arm worked now like a well-lubricated piece of machinery, and the
outshoots and incurves and drops which he sent with varying speed into
Apthorpe's hands puzzled the enemy to distraction.

Nor was the second half of the inning much more exciting. To be sure,
Apthorpe put a fly where the Durham right fielder could not reach it, and
so got to first base, and Riding advanced him by a neat sacrifice; but he
had no chance to score.

Durham's best hitter was Mansfield, the instructor, who played first base.
Just when or how the peculiar custom of recruiting baseball and football
players from the faculty originated at Willard's and Durham is not known;
but it was a privilege that each enjoyed and made use of whenever possible.

This year, for almost the first time, Willard's team had been, until
to-day, composed entirely of students. On the other hand, Mansfield had
been playing with Durham all spring, and to his excellent fielding and
hitting was largely due the fact that she had won the second of the three
games.

He was a player of much experience, and in the eighth inning, when he came
to bat, he made a three-base hit. The little knot of Durhamites shrieked
joyfully and waved their cherry-and-white banners.

Curly faced the next batsman, tried him with a "drop," at which he promptly
struck and failed to hit, and then gave his attention to Mansfield on
third. Curly watched him out of the corner of his eye and pitched again.
The umpire called another strike.

Apthorpe threw back the ball to the pitcher; Curly dropped it, recovered
it, and threw swiftly to third base.

Large bodies move slowly. Mansfield was caught a yard from the base. He
retired in chagrin, while Willard's cheered ecstatically. Then the batsman
struck out on a slow drop ball.

The third man made a leisurely hit and was thrown out at first.

During the next half inning Curly held his court on the players' bench.
Little by little timidity wore away, and the boys gave voice to their
enthusiasm. They wished they had known he was such a ball player early in
the spring. Next year he would play on the team, would he not?

Curly remembered the letter in his pocket and sighed.

Again Willard's failed to get a man over the plate, although at one time
there was a player on third. The ninth inning began with the score still
eight to eight. The spectators suggested ten innings, and fell to recalling
former long-drawn contests.

Curly had found his pace, as Harris put it. His white shirt was stained
with the dust of battle; his shoes were gray and scuffed; his curly locks
were damp and clung to his forehead; but his blue eyes were bright, and as
he poised the ball in air, balancing himself before the throw, he no longer
looked ridiculous.

Harris, observing him from the bench, rendered ungrudging admiration.

"Good old 'Newt' Stone!" he muttered. "It's the little chaps, after all,
who have the pluck!"

But pluck alone would not have succeeded in shutting Durham out in that
inning. Science was necessary, and science Curly had. He had not forgotten
the old knack of "sizing up" the batsman. He found, in fact, that he had
forgotten nothing.

Durham made the supreme effort of the contest in that first half of the
ninth inning. It might be the last chance to score. The first man struck
out as ingloriously as his predecessors; but the second batsman, after
knocking innumerable fouls, made a slow bunt and reached his base.

At that Durham's supporters found encouragement, and her cheers rose once
more. Then fate threw a sop to the wearers of the cherry and white.

The third man up was struck on the elbow with the ball, and trotted
gleefully to first, the player ahead going to second. But Curly caught the
runner on first napping, and the next batsman struck out. The
blue-stockinged players came in from the field.

"Stone at bat!" called the scorer. "Brown on deck!"

"A run would do it, sir," said Apthorpe, eagerly.

"One of those old-fashioned home runs, Newt," laughed Harris.

Curly walked to the plate, and stood there, swinging the bat back of his
shoulder in a way that suggested discretion to the wearied Durham pitcher.

From the bank came encouraging cheers for "Mr. Stone." He made no offer at
the first ball, which was out of reach. Then came a strike.

The spectators fidgeted in their seats; the field was almost quiet. Then
bat and ball met with a sharp crack, and Curly sped toward first.

Across that base he sped, swung in a quick curve, and made for second. The
center fielder had picked up the ball and was about to throw it in.

It was a narrow chance, but when Curly scrambled to his feet after his
slide, the umpire dropped his hand. Curly was safe. From the bank and along
the base line came loud cheers for Willard's.

But the following batsman struck out miserably. The next attempted a
sacrifice, and not only went out himself, but failed to advance the runner.

Then Curly, seeing no help forthcoming, advanced himself, starting like a
shot with the pitcher's arm and rising safe from a cloud of dust at third.

Apthorpe went to bat, weary but determined. Curly, on third, shot back and
forth like a shuttle with every motion of the pitcher's arm. With two balls
in his favor, Apthorpe thought he saw his chance, and struck swiftly at an
outshoot.

The result--he swung through empty air--appeared to unnerve him. He struck
again at the next ball, and again missed.

But he found the next ball, and drove it swift and straight at the pitcher.

Curly was ten feet from the base when ball met bat. He stopped, poised to
go on or to scuttle back, and saw the pitcher attempt the catch, drop the
ball as if it were a red-hot cinder, and stoop for it.

Then Curly settled his chin on his breast, worked his arms like pistons and
his legs like driving shafts, and flew along the line.

Beside him scuttled a coach, shouting shrill, useless words. All about him
were cries, commands, entreaties, confused, meaningless. Ten feet from the
plate he launched himself through space, with arms outstretched. The dust
was in his eyes and nostrils.

He felt a corner of the plate. At the same instant he heard the thud of the
ball against the catcher's glove overhead, the swish of the down-swinging
arm, and----

"Safe at the plate!" cried the umpire.

At second Apthorpe was sitting on the bag, joyfully kicking his heels into
the earth. On the bench the scorer made big, trembling dots on the page.
Everywhere pandemonium reigned. The home nine had won game and
championship.

Curly jumped to his feet, dusted his bedraggled clothes, and walked into
the arms of Harris.

"The best steal you ever made!" cried Harris, thumping him on the back. As
he went to the bench he heard an excited and perspiring youth exclaim
proudly, "I have him in Greek, you know!"

Two minutes later the cherry-colored banners of Durham departed, flaunting
bravely in the face of defeat.

Willard's danced across the terrace, shouting and singing. In their
possession was a soiled and battered ball, which on the morrow would be
inscribed with the figures "9 to 8," and proudly suspended behind a glass
case in the trophy room.

Curly and Harris sat together in the former's study. Supper was over. Curly
held a sealed and addressed letter in his hands, which he turned over and
over undecidedly.

"Then--if you were in my place--under the circumstances--you--you wouldn't
hand this in?" he asked.

"Let me have it, please," said Harris, with decision. He tore the letter
across, and tossed the pieces into the waste basket.

"That's the only thing to do with that," he said. And in the successful two
years of teaching since then Curly has come to feel that Harris was quite
right.




PATSY


He made his first appearance one afternoon a week or so before the Fall
Handicap Meeting. Mosher, Fosgill, Alien, Ronimus, and several more of us
were down at the end of the field putting the shot. Fosgill, who was
scratch man that year, had just done an even forty feet and the shot had
trickled away toward the cinder path. Whereupon a small bit of humanity
appeared from somewhere, picked up the sixteen pounds of lead with much
difficulty, and staggered back to the circle with it.

"Hello, kid," said Fosgill; "that's pretty heavy for you, isn't it?"

"Naw," was the superb reply; "that ain't nothin'!"

We laughed, and the youngster grinned around at us in a companionable way
that won us on the spot.

"What's your name?" asked Ronimus.

"Patsy."

"Patsy what?"

"Burns."

"How old are you?"

"'Leven."

"You're a Frenchman, aren't yon?"

"Naw."

"You're not?" Ronimus pretended intense surprise.

"He's a Dutchman, aren't you, Patsy?" said Mosher.

"Naw."

"What are you then?"

"Mucker," answered Patsy with a grin.

For the rest of that day and for many days afterwards Patsy honored us with
his presence. After each put he ambled forth, lifted the metal ball from
the ground with two dirty little hands, snuggled it against the front of
his dirty little shirt, and labored back with it. At the end of the week
Patsy had become official helper.

He was a diminutive wisp of humanity, a starved, slender elf with a
freckled face, wizened and peaked, which at times looked a thousand years
old. It reminded you of the face of one of those preternaturally aged
monkeys that sit motionless in a dark corner of the cage, oppressed with
the sins and sorrows of a hundred centuries. And yet it mustn't be supposed
that Patsy was either a pessimist or a misanthrope. Patsy's gray Irish eye
could sparkle merrily and his thin little Irish mouth usually wore a
whimsical smile. It was as though he realized that life was but a hollow
mockery and yet had bravely resolved to pretend otherwise, that we, young
and innocent, might still preserve our cherished illusions.

We made a good deal of Patsy. We pretended that he was very, very old and
sophisticated--not a difficult task--and deferred to his judgment on all
occasions. But in spite of this Patsy never became "fresh." To be sure, he
speedily began calling Fosgill "Bull," but I don't think he meant the
slightest disrespect; everyone called the big fellow "Bull," and it is
quite possible that Patsy believed it to be a title of honor. He was
attentive to all of us, but his heart was Fosgill's. He used to wait
outside the Locker Building until we came out after dressing and then walk
beside Fosgill until he reached the Square. Then Patsy would say:

"Good night, Bull."

And Fosgill would answer gravely:

"Good night, Patsy."

And Patsy would disappear.

But the evening of the Handicaps we took him back to the boarding house
with us, and he sat beside Fosgill and ate ravenously of everything placed
before him. We learned Patsy's life story that evening. He went to
school--generally. He lived with Brian. Brian was his brother, eighteen
years old, and a man of business; Brian drove for Connors, the teamster.
Patsy wasn't sure that he had ever had a mother, but he was absolutely
certain about his father. He still had vivid recollections of the night
they broke down the door and put the handcuffs on father after father had
laid out the lieutenant with a chair. Patsy didn't know just what father
had done, but he had an idea it was something regarding the disappearance
of numerous suits of clothes from a tailor's shop. Patsy was going into
business himself just as soon as they let him stop school; he was going to
sell papers. He had tried several times to wean himself from education, but
each time they haled him back to the schoolhouse. P