CHAPTER XIIIBARGAINS
“That’s enough! Get up off him! Don’t you know enough, Gaffington, to tell when a man’s down?”
Andy heard the sharp voice of the coach, Holwell, but the tones seemed to come from a great distance.
“Water here!”
“Somebody’s keeled over!”
“It’s that freshman, Blair. Plucky little imp, too!”
“Who tackled him?”
“Gaffington. Took him a bit high and fell on him!”
“Oh, well, this is football; it isn’t kindergarten beanbag.”
Dimly Andy heard these comments. He opened his eyes, only to close them again as he felt a dash of cold water in his face.
“Feel all right now?”
It was the voice of the coach in his ears. Andy felt himself being lifted to his feet. His earsrang, and he could not see clearly. There was a confused mass of forms about him, and the ground seemed to reel beneath his feet.
Then like another dash of cold water came the thought to him, sharply and clearly:
“This isn’t playing the game! If I’m going to go over like this every time I’m tackled I’ll never play for Yale. Brace up!”
By sheer effort of will Andy brought his staggering senses back.
“I—I’m all right,” he panted. “Sort of a solar plexus knock, I guess.”
“That’s the way to talk!” exclaimed the coach, grimly. “Now then, fellows, hit it up. Where’s that ball? Oh, you had it, did you, Blair? That’s right, whatever happens, keep the ball! Get into the play now. Varsity, tear up that scrub line! What’s the matter with you, anyhow? You’re letting ’em go right through you. Smash ’em! Smash ’em good and hard. All right now, Blair?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Get in the game then. Scrub’s ball. Hurry up! Signal!”
Sharp and incisive came his tones, like some bitter tonic. Not a word of praise—always finding fault; and as for sympathy—you might as well have looked for it from an Indian ready to use his scalping knife. And yet—that is whatmade the Yale team what it was—a fighting machine.
Once more came the line-up, the scrub quarter snapping out his signals.
Andy took his old place. He was rapidly feeling better, yet his whole body ached and he felt as though he had fallen from a great height. He was terribly jarred, for Mortimer had put into the tackle all his fierce energy, adding to it a spice of malice.
Andy heard the signal given for the forward pass, and felt relieved. He could take another few seconds to get his breathing into a more regular cadence. He looked over at Mortimer, who grinned maliciously. Andy knew, as well as if he had been told, that the tackle had been needlessly fierce. But there was no earthly use in speaking of it. Rather would it do him more harm than good. This, then, was part of the “getting even” game that his enemy had marked out.
“He won’t get me again, though!” thought Andy, fiercely. “If he does, it will be my own fault. Wait until I get a chance at him!”
It came sooner than he expected. The forward pass on the part of the scrub was a fluke and after a few more rushing plays the ball was given to the varsity to enable them to try some of their new plays.
Several times Mortimer had the pigskin, and was able to make good gains. Then the wrath of the coach was turned against the luckless scrubs.
“What do you fellows mean?” cried Holwell. “Letting ’em go through you this way! Get at ’em! Break up their plays if you can! Block their kicks. They’ll think they’re playing a kid team! I want ’em to work! Smash ’em! Kill ’em!”
He was rushing about, waving his hands, stamping his feet—a veritable little cyclone of a coach.
“Signal!” he cried sharply.
It came from the varsity quarter, and Andy noticed, with a thrill in his heart, that Gaffington was to take the ball.
“Here’s where I get him!” muttered Andy, fiercely.
There was a rush—a thud of bodies against bodies—gaspings of breaths, the cracking of muscles and sinews. Andy felt himself in a maelstrom of pushing, striving, hauling and toppling flesh. Then, in an instant, there came an opening, and he saw before him but one player—Mortimer—with the ball.
Like a flash Andy sprang forward and caught his man in a desperate embrace—a hard, clean tackle. Andy put into it all his strength, intentonly upon hurling his opponent to the turf with force enough to jar him insensible if possible.
Perhaps he should not have done so, you may say, but Andy was only human. He was playing a fierce game, and he wanted his revenge.
Into Mortimer’s eyes came a look of fear, as he went down under the impact of Andy. But there was this difference. Mortimer’s previous experience had taught him how to take a fall, and he came to no more hurt through Andy’s fierce tackle than from that of any other player, however much Andy might have meant he should. Our hero did not stop to think that he might have injured one of the varsity players so as to put him out of the game, and at a time when Yale needed all the good men she could muster. And Gaffington, in spite of his faults, was a good player.
There was a thud as Andy and Mortimer struck the earth—a thud that told of breaths being driven from their bodies. Then Andy saw the ball jarred from his opponent’s arms, and, in a flash he had let go and had rolled over on it. An instant later there was an animated pile of players on both lads, smothering their winded “Downs!”
“That’ll do! Get up!” snapped the coach. “What’s the matter with you, Gaffington, to let a freshman get you that way and put you out ofthe game? Porter!” he shouted and a lad came running from the bench, pulling off his sweater as he ran, and tossing it to a companion. He had been called on to take Gaffington’s place, and the latter, angry and shamed-faced, walked to the side lines.
As he went he gave Andy a look, as much as to say:
“You win this time; but the battle isn’t over. I’ll get you yet.”
As for Andy, his revenge had been greater than he had hoped. He had put his enemy out of the game more effectively than if he had knocked the breath from him by a tremendous tackle.
“Good tackle, Blair!” called the scrub captain to him, as the line-up formed again. “That’s the way to go for ’em!”
The coach said nothing, but to the varsity captain he whispered:
“Keep your eye on Blair. If he keeps on, he may make a player yet. He’s a little too wild, though. Don’t say anything that will give him a swelled head.”
The practice went on unrelentingly, and then the candidates were ordered back to the gymnasium on the run, to be followed by a shower and a brisk rub.
Glowing with health and vigor, and yet lameand sore from the hard tackle, Andy went to his room, to find Dunk Chamber impatiently waiting for him.
“Oh, there you are, you old mud lark!” was the greeting. “I’ve been waiting for you. Come on around to Burke’s and have some ale and a rarebit.”
“No thanks. I’m in training, you know.”
“That’s so. Been out on the field?”
“Yes. I wonder you don’t go in for that.”
“Too much like work. I might try for the crew or the nine. I’m afraid of spoiling my manly beauty by getting somebody’s boot heel in the eye. By the way, you don’t look particularly handsome. What has somebody been doing to you?”
“Nothing more than usual. It’s all in the game.”
“Then excuse me! Are you coming to Burke’s? You can take sarsaparilla, you know. Thad and his bunch are coming.”
“Sure, I don’t mind trailing along. Got to get at a little of that infernal Greek, though.”
“All right, I’ll wait. The fellows will be along soon.”
And as Andy did a little of necessary studying he could not help wondering where Dunk would end. A fine young fellow, with plenty of money, and few responsibilities. Yale—indeed any college—offerednumberless temptations for such as he.
“Well, I can’t help it,” thought Andy. “He’s got to look out for himself.”
And again there seemed to come to him that whisper:
“Am I my brother’s keeper?”
Surely Dunk was a college brother.
Andy had scarcely finished wrestling with his Homer when there came a series of loud and jolly hails:
“Oh, you Dunk!”
“Stick out your top, Blair!”
“Here come the boys!” exclaimed Dunk. “Now for some fun!”
The three friends trooped in.
“Some little practice to-day, eh, Blair?” remarked Bob Hunter.
“And some little tackle Gaffington gave you, too!” added Thad.
“Yes, but Andy got back at him good and proper, and put him out of the game,” remarked Ted. “It was a beaut!”
“Did you and Mortimer have a run-in?” asked Dunk quickly.
“Oh, no more than is usual in practice,” replied Andy, lightly. “He shook me up and I came back at him.”
“If that’s football, give me a good old-fashionedfight!” laughed Dunk. “Well, if we’re going to have some fun, come on.”
As they were leaving the room they were confronted by two other students. Andy recognized one as Isaac Stein, more popularly known as Ikey, a sophomore, and Hashmi Yatta, a Japanese student of more than usual brilliancy.
“Oh boys, such a business!” exclaimed Ikey. He was a Jew, and not ashamed of it, often making himself the butt of the many expressions used against his race. On this account he was more than tolerated—he had many friends out of his own faith. “Such a business!” he went on, using his hands, without which he used to say he could not talk.
“Well, what is it now?” asked Dunk with good-humored patience. “Neckties or silk shirts?” for Ikey was working his way through college partly by acting as agent for various tradesmen, getting a commission on his sales. Dunk was one of his best customers.
“Such a business!” went on Ikey, mocking himself. “It is ornaments, gentlemans! Beautiful ornaments from the Flowery Kingdom. Such vawses—such vawses! Is it not, my friend Hashmi Yatta?” and he appealed to the Japanese.
“Of a surely they are beautiful,” murmured the little yellow lad. “There is some very goodcloisonne, some kisku, and one or two pieces in awaji-yaki. Also there is some satsuma, if you would like it.”
“And the prices!” interrupted Ikey. “Such bargains! Come, you shall see. It is a crime to take them!”
“What’s it all about?” asked Dunk. “Have you fellows been looting a crockery store?”
“No, it is Hashmi here,” said the Jew. “I don’t know whether his imperial ancestors willed them to him, or sent them over as a gift, but they are wonderful. A whole packing case full, and he’ll sell them dirt cheap.”
“What do we want of ’em?” asked Andy.
“Want of ’em, you beggar? Why they’ll be swell ornaments for your room!”
That was an appeal no freshman could resist.
“What do you say?” asked Dunk, weakly. “Shall we take a look, Andy?”
“I don’t mind.”
“You will never regret it!” vowed Ikey. “It is wonderful. Such bargains! It is a shame. I wonder Hashmi can do it.”
“They are too many for me to keep,” murmured the Jap.
“And so he will sell some,” interrupted Ikey, eagerly.
“And pay you a commission for working them off, I suppose,” spoke Thad.
Ikey looked hurt.
“Believe me,” he said, earnestly, “believe me, what little I get out of it is a shame, already. It is nothing. But I could not see the bargains missed. Come, we will have a look at them. You will never regret it!”
“You ought to be in business—not college,” laughed Dunk, as he slipped into a mackinaw. “Come on, Andy, let’s go and get stuck good and proper.”
“Stuck! Oh, such a business!” gasped Ikey, with upraised hands. “They are bargains, I tell you!”
CHAPTER XIVDUNK REFUSES
“This way, fellows! Don’t let anybody see us come in!”
Thus cautioned Ikey as he led his “prospective victims,” as Dunk referred to himself and the others, through various back streets and alley ways.
“Why the caution?” Andy wanted to know, stumbling over an unseen obstruction, and nearly falling.
“Hush!” whispered the Jew. “I want you, my friends, to have the pick of the bargains first. After that the others may come in. If some of the seniors knew of these vawses there wouldn’t be one left.”
“Oh, well we mustn’t let that happen!” laughed Dunk. “I know I’m going to get stuck, but lead on, Horatio. I’m game.”
“Stuck, is it?” cried Ikey, and he seemed hurt at the suggestion. “Wait until you have seen, eh, Hashmi?”
“Of a surely, yes. They are beautiful!”
“And so cheap; are they not, Hashmi?”
“Of a surely, yes.”
“Where are you taking us, anyhow?” demanded Thad. “I thought we were going to Burke’s.”
“So we are, later,” said Dunk. “I want to see some of this junk, though. Our room does need a bit of decoration, eh, Andy?”
“Yes, it can stand a few more things.”
“But where are we going, anyhow?” Bob demanded. “This looks like a chop-suey joint.”
“Hush!” cautioned Ikey again. “Some of the fellows may be around. There is a Chinese restaurant upstairs.”
“And what’s downstairs?” asked Andy.
“Why, Hashmi had to hire a vacant room to put the packing box in when it came from Japan,” explained Ikey. “It was too big to take up to his joint. Besides, it’s filled with straw, you know, so the vawses couldn’t smash. He’s just got it in this vacant store temporarily. You fellows have the first whack at it.”
“Well, let’s get the whacking over with,” suggested Andy. “I had all I wanted at Yale Field this afternoon.”
They came to a low, dingy building, at the side of which ran a black alley.
“In here—mind your steps!” warned Ikey.
They stumbled on, and then came to a haltbehind the college salesman. He shot out a gleam of radiance from a pocket electric flashlight and opened a door.
“Hurry up!” he whispered, and as the others slipped in he closed and locked the portal. “Are the shades down, Hashmi?” he asked.
“Of a surely, yes.”
“Then show the fellows what your ancestors sent you.”
There was the removal of boards from a big packing case that stood in the middle of a bare room. There was the rustle of straw, and then, in the gleam of the little electric flash the boys saw a confused jumble of Japanese vases and other articles in porcelain, packed in the box.
“There, how’s that?” demanded Ikey, triumphantly, as he picked one up. “Wouldn’t that look swell on your mantel, Dunk?”
“It might do to hold my tobacco.”
“Tobacco! You heathen! Why, that jar is to hold the ashes of your ancestors!”
“Haven’t any ancestors that had ashes as far as I know,” said Dunk, imperturbably. “I can smoke enough cigar ashes to fill it, though.”
“Hopeless—hopeless,” murmured Ikey. “But look—such a bargain, only seven dollars!”
“Holy mackerel!” cried Andy. “Seven dollars for a tobacco jar!”
“It isn’t a tobacco jar, I tell you!” cried Ikey.“It’s like the old Egyptian tear vawses, only different. Seven dollars—why it’s worth fifteen if it’s worth a cent. Ain’t it, Hashmi?”
“Of a surely, yes,” said the Jap, with an inscrutable smile.
“But he’ll let you have it for just a little more than the wholesale price in Japan, mind you—in Japan!” cried Ikey. “Seven dollars. Think of it!”
“What about your commission?” asked Thad, with a grin.
“A mere nothing—I must live, you know,” and Ikey shrugged his shoulders. “Do you want it, Dunk? Why don’t you fellows pick out something? You’ll wait until they’re gone and be kicking yourselves. They’re dirt cheap—bargains every one. Look at that vawse!” and he held up another to view in the pencil of light from the flash torch.
“It would do for crackers, I suppose,” said Andy, doubtfully.
“Crackers!” gasped Ikey. “Tell him what it is for, Hashmi. I haven’t the heart,” and he pretended to weep.
“This jar—he is for the holding of the petals of roses that were sent by your loved ones—the perfumes of Eros,” murmured the poetical Japanese.
“Oh, for the love of tripe! Hold me, I’mgoing to faint, Gertie!” cried Bob. “Rose petals from your loved ones! Oh, slush!”
“It is true,” and Hashmi did not seem to resent being laughed at. “But it would do for crackers as well.”
“How much?” asked Andy.
“Only five dollars—worth ten,” whispered Ikey.
“Well, it would look nice on my stand,” said Andy weakly. “I—I’ll take it.”
“And I guess you may as well wish me onto that dead ancestor jar,” added Dunk. “I’m always getting stuck anyhow. Seven plunks is getting off easy.”
“You will never regret it,” murmured Ikey. “Where is that paper, Hashmi? Now don’t you fellows let anyone else in on this game until I give the word. I’m taking care of my friends first, then the rest of the bunch. Friends first, say I.”
“Yes, if you’re going to stick anybody, stick your friends first,” laughed Dunk. “They’re the easiest. Go ahead, now you fellows bite,” and he looked at Bob, Thad and Ted.
“What’s this—a handkerchief box?” asked Ted, picking up one covered with black and gold lacquer.
“Handkerchief box! Shades of Koami!” cried Ikey. “That, you dunce, is a box made to——Oh,you tell him, Hashmi, I haven’t the heart.”
“No, he wants to figure out how much he’s made on us,” added Andy.
“That box—he is for the retaining of the messages from the departed,” explained the Japanese.
“You mean it’s a spiritualist cabinet?” demanded Thad. “I say now, will it do the rapping trick?”
“You misapprehend me,” murmured Hashmi. “I mean that you conserve in that the letters your ancestors may have written you. But of a courseness you might put in it your nose beautifiers if you wish, and perfume them.”
“Nose beautifiers—he means handkerchiefs,” explained Ikey. “It’s a bargain—only three dollars.”
“I’ll take it,” spoke Thad. “I know a girl I can give it to. No objection to putting a powder puff in it; is there, Hashmi?”
“Of a surely, no.”
More of the wares from the big box were displayed and the two other lads took something. Then Dunk insisted on having another look, and bought several “vawses,” as Ikey insisted on calling them.
“They’ll look swell in the room, eh, Andy? he asked.
“They sure will. I only hope there’s no more rough house or you’ll be out several dollars.”
“If those rusty sophs smash any of this stuff I’ll go to the dean about it!” threatened Dunk, well knowing, however, that he would not.
“Such bargains! Such bargains!” whispered Ikey, as he let them out of the side door, first glancing up and down the dark alley to make sure that no other college lads were lying in wait to demand their share of the precious stuff. The coast was clear and Andy and his chums slipped out, carrying their purchases.
“Are you coming?” Dunk asked of Ikey.
“No, I’ll stay and help Hashmi pack up the things. If you want any more let me know.”
“Huh! You mean you’ll stay and count up how much you’ve stuck us!” said Dunk. “Oh, well, it looks like nice stuff. But I’ve got enough for the present. I’ve overdrawn my allowance as it is.”
“Well, we’ll leave this junk in your room, Andy, and then go out and have some fun,” suggested Thad.
They piled their purchases on the beds in Andy’s and Dunk’s room in Wright Hall and then proceeded on to Burke’s place, an eating and drinking resort for many students.
There was a crowd there when Andy and his chums entered and they were noisily greeted.
“Oh, you Dunk!”
“Over here! Lots of room!”
“Waiter, five more cold steins!”
“None for me!” said Andy with a smile.
“That’s all right—he’s trying for the team,” someone said, in a low tone.
“Oh!”
Through the haze of the smoke of many pipes Andy saw some of the football crowd. They were all taking “soft stuff,” which he himself ordered.
Then began an evening of jollity and clean fun. It was rather rough, and of the nature of horseplay, of course, and perhaps some of the lads did forget themselves a little, but it was far from being an orgy.
“I’m going to pull out soon,” spoke Andy to Dunk, when an hour or so had passed.
“Oh, don’t be in a rush. I’ll be with you in a little while.”
“All right, I’ll wait.”
Again to Andy had come the idea that he might, after all, prove a sort of “brother’s keeper” to his chum.
The fun grew faster and more furious, but there was a certain line that was never overstepped, and for this Andy was glad.
The door opened to admit another throng, and Andy saw Mortimer and several of his companionsof the fast set. How Gaffington kept up the pace and still managed to retain his place on the football team was a mystery to many. He had wonderful recuperative powers, though, and was well liked by a certain element.
“Hello, Dunk!” he greeted Andy’s roommate. “You’re looking pretty fit.”
“Same to you—though you look as though you’d been having one.”
“So I have—rather strenuous practice to-day. Oh, there’s the fellow who did me up!” and he looked at Andy and, to our hero’s surprise, laughed.
“It’s all right, old man—no hard feelings,” went on Mortimer. “Will you shake?”
“Sure!” exclaimed Andy, eagerly. He was only too anxious not to have any enmity.
“Put her there! Shake!” exclaimed the other. “You shook me and I shook you. No hard feelings, eh?”
“Of course not!”
“That’s all right then. Fellows, I’ll give you one—Andy Blair—a good tackier!” and Mortimer raised his glass on high.
“Andy Blair! Oh, you Andy! Your eye on us!”
And thus was Andy pledged by his enemy. What did it mean?
Faster grew the fun. The room was chokingblue with tobacco smoke, and Andy wanted to get away.
“Come on, Dunk,” he said. “Let’s pull out. We’ve got some stiff recitations to-morrow.”
“All right, I’m willing.”
Mortimer saw them start to leave, and coming over put his arm affectionately around Dunk.
“Oh, you’re not going!” he expostulated. “Why, it’s early yet and the fun’s just starting. Don’t be a quitter!”
Dunk flushed. He was not used to being called that.
“Yes, stay and finish out,” urged others.
Andy felt that it was a crisis. Yet he could say nothing. Dunk seemed undecided for a moment, and Mortimer renewed his pleadings.
“Be a sport!” he cried. “Have a good time while you’re living—you’re a long time dead!”
There was a moment’s hush. Then Dunk gently removed Mortimer’s arm and said:
“No, I’m going back with Blair. Come on, Andy.”
And they went out together.
CHAPTER XVDUNK GOES OUT
“Look at that!”
“Why, it’s the same stuff!”
“There’s a rose jar like the one I bought for seven dollars marked two seventy-five!”
“Oh, the robber! Why, there’s a handkerchief box, bigger than the one he stuck me with, and it’s only a dollar!”
“Say, let’s rough-house Ikey and that Jap!”
Andy, Dunk, and their three friends were standing in front of a Japanese store, looking in the window, that held many articles associated with the Flowery Kingdom. Price tags were on them, and the lads discovered that they had paid dearly for the ornaments they had so surreptitiously viewed in the semi-darkness, under the guidance of Ikey Stein.
This was several days after they had purchased their bric-a-brac and meanwhile they had seen Ikey and Hashmi going about getting other students into their toils.
“Say, that was a plant, all right!” declared Dunk. “I’m going to make Ikey shell out.”
“And the Jap, too!” added Andy. “We sure were stuck!”
For the articles in the window were identical, in many cases, with those they had bought, but the prices were much less.
“I thought there was something fishy about it,” commented Thad. “Never again do I buy a pig in a poke!”
“I’ll poke Ikey when I catch him,” said Bob.
“Here he comes now,” spoke Ted, in a low voice. “Don’t seem to see him until he gets close, and then we’ll grab him and make him shell out!”
So the five remained looking steadfastly in the window until the unsuspecting Ikey came close. Then Andy and Dunk made a quick leap and caught him.
“What—what is it?” asked the surprised student.
“We merely want your advice on the purchase of some more art objects,” said Andy, grimly. “You’re such an expert, you know.”
“Some other time—some other time! I’m due at a lecture now!” pleaded Ikey, squirming to get away.
“The lecture can wait,” said Dunk. “Look at that vawse for the holding of the rose petals from your loved one. See it there—now would you advise me to buy it? It’s much cheaperthan the one you and your beloved Hashmi stuck me with.”
Ikey looked at the faces of his captors. He saw only stern, unrelenting glares, and realized that his game had been discovered.
“I—er—I——” he stammered.
“Come, what’s your advice?” demanded Dunk. “Did I pay too much?”
“I—er—perhaps you did,” admitted Ikey, slowly.
“Then fork over the balance.”
“And what about my cracker jar—for the ashes of dead ancestors?” asked Andy. “Was I stuck, too?”
“Oh, no, not at all. Why, that is a very rare piece.”
“What about that one in the window?” demanded Andy. “That’s only rare to the tune of several dollars less than I paid.”
“Oh, but you are mistaken!” Ikey assured him. “It takes an expert to tell the difference. You can ask Hashmi——”
“Hashmi be hanged!” cried Dunk, giving the captured one a shake. A little crowd had gathered in the street to see the fun.
“I—I’ll give you whatever you think is right,” promised Ikey. “Only let me go. I shall be late.”
“The late Mr. Stein,” laughed Andy.
“What about the rare satsuma piece you wished onto me?” demanded Ted.
“And that cloisonne flower vawse that has a crack in it?” Thad wanted to know.
“That’s because it’s so old,” whined Ikey. “It is more valuable.”
“There’s one in the window without a crack for three dollars less,” was the retort.
“Oh, well, if you fellows are dissatisfied with your bargains——”
“Oh, we’re not going to back down,” said Andy, “but we’re not going to pay more than they’re worth, either. It was a plant, and you know it. Now you shell out all we paid above what the things are marked at in this window, and we’ll call it square—that is, if you don’t go around blabbing how you took us in.”
“All right! All right!” cried Ikey. “I’ll do it, only let me go!”
“No; pay first! Run him over to our rooms,” suggested Dunk. They were not far from the quadrangle, and catching hold of Ikey they ran him around into High Street and through the gateway beside Chittenden Hall to Wright. There, up in Andy’s and Dunk’s room, Ikey was made to disgorge his cash. But they were merciful to him and only took the difference in price.
“Now you tell us how it happened, and we’ll let you go,” promised Andy.
“It was all Hashmi’s fault,” declared Ikey. “I believed him when he said his brother in Japan had sent him a box of fine vawses. Hashmi said he didn’t need ’em all, and I said maybe we could sell ’em. So I did.”
“That was all right; but why did you stick up the price?” asked Andy.
“A fellow has to make money,” returned Ikey, innocently enough, and Dunk laughed.
“All right,” said Andy’s roommate. “Don’t do it again, that’s all. Who is Hashmi’s brother?”
“One of ’em keeps that Jap store where you were looking in the window,” said Ikey, edging out of the room, “and the other is in Japan. He sent the stuff over to be sold in the regular way, but that sly Hashmi fooled me. Never again!”
“And you passed it on to us,” said Andy with a laugh.
“Well, it’s all in the game.”
“Still, we’ve got the stuff,” said Ted.
They had, but had they known it all they would have learned that, even at the lowered price they were paying dearly enough for the ornaments, and at that Hashmi and Ikey divided a goodly sum between them.
The college days passed on. Andy and Dunk were settling down to the grind of study, makingit as easy as they could for themselves, as did the other students.
Andy kept on with his football practice, and made progress. He was named as second substitute on the freshman team and did actually play through the fourth quarter in an important game, after it had been taken safely into the Yale camp. But he was proud even to do that, and made a field goal that merited him considerable applause.
Mortimer had dropped out of the varsity team. There was good reason, for he would not train, and, though he could play brilliantly at times, he could not be depended on.
“I don’t care!” he boasted to his sporting crowd. “I can have some fun, now.”
Several times he and his crowd had come around to ask Dunk to go out with them, but Dunk had refused, much to Mortimer’s chagrin.
“Oh, come on, be a good fellow!” he had urged.
“No, I’ve got to do some boning.”
“Oh, forget it!”
But Dunk would not, for which Andy was glad.
Then came a period when Dunk went to pieces in his recitations. He was warned by his professors and tried to make up for it by hard study.He was not naturally brilliant and certain lessons came hard to him.
He grew discouraged and talked of withdrawing. Andy did all he could for him, even to the neglect of his own standing, but it seemed to do no good.
“What’s the use of it all, anyhow?” demanded Dunk. “I’ll spend four mortal years here, and come out with a noddle full of musty old Latin and Greek, go to work in dad’s New York office and forget it all in six months. I might as well start forgetting it now.”
“You’ve got the wrong idea,” said Andy.
“Well, maybe I have. Hanged if I see how you do it!”
“I don’t do so well.”
“But you don’t get floored as I do! I’m going to chuck it!” and he threw his Horace across the room, shattering the Japanese vase he had bought.
“Look out!” cried Andy.
“Too late! I don’t give a hang!”
Someone came along the hall.
“What are you fellows up to?” asked a gay voice. “Trying to break up housekeeping?”
“It’s Gaffington!” murmured Andy.
“Come on in!” invited Dunk.
“You fellows come on out!” retorted the newcomer. “There’s a peach of a show atPoli’s. Let’s take it in and have supper at Burke’s afterward.”
Dunk got up.
“Hanged if I don’t!” he said, with a defiant look at Andy.
“That’s the stuff! Be a sport!” challenged Mortimer. “Coming along, Blair?”
“No.”
Mortimer laughed.
“Go down among the dead ones!” he cried. “Come on, Dunk, we’ll make a night of it!”
And they went out together, leaving Andy alone in the silent room.
CHAPTER XVIIN BAD
The clock was ticking. To Andy it sounded as loud as a timepiece in a tower. The rhythmic cadence seemed to fill the room. Somewhere off in the distance a bell boomed out—a church bell.
Andy sat in a brown study, looking into the fireplace. A little blaze was going on the hearth, and the young student, gazing at the embers saw many pictures there.
For some time Andy sat without stirring. He had listened to the retreating footsteps of Dunk and Mortimer as the boys passed down the corridor, laughing.
Through Wright Hall there echoed other footsteps—coming and going—there was the sound of voices in talk and in gay repartee. Students called one to the other, or in groups hurried here and there, intent on pleasure. Andy sat there alone—thinking—thinking.
A log in the fireplace broke with a suddenness that startled him. A shower of sparks flew up the chimney, and a little puff of smoke shot out into the room. Andy roused himself.
“Oh, hang it all!” he exclaimed aloud. “Why should I care? Let him go with that crowd—with Mort and his bunch if he likes. What difference does it make to me?”
He stood up, his arm on the mantel where had rested the Japanese vase purchased so mysteriously. Now only the fragments of it were there.
A comparison between that shattered vase and what might be the shattered friendship between himself and his roommate came to Andy, but he resolutely thrust it aside.
“What difference does it make to me?” he asked himself. “Let him go his own way, and I’ll go mine.”
He crossed to the book rack on the window sill, intending to do some studying. On the broad stone ledge outside the casement he kept his bottle of spring water. It was a cooler place than the room. Andy poured himself out a drink, and as he sipped it he said again:
“Why should I care what he does?”
Then, from off in the distance he heard the chimes of a church, playing “Adestes Fideles.”
He stood listening—entranced as the tones came to him, softened by the night air.
And there seemed to whisper to him a still, small voice that asked:
“Am I my brother’s keeper?”
Andy shut the window softly, and, going back to his chair sat staring into the fire. It was dying down, the embers settling into the dead ashes. It was very still and quiet in the little room. All Wright Hall was very still and quiet now.
“I—I guess I’ll have to care—after all,” whispered Andy.
Footsteps were heard coming along the corridor, and, for a moment Andy had a wild hope that it might be Dunk returning. But as he listened he knew it was not his chum.
Someone knocked on the door.
“Come!” called Andy sharply. It could be none of his friends, he knew.
A messenger entered with a note, and, observing an unfamiliar handwriting, Andy wondered from whom it could be. He ripped it open and uttered an exclamation. He read:
“Dear Mr. Blair:”I am doing a little engagement at Poli’s. Won’t you drop around and see me? I promise not to compel you to play the fireman.“Sincerely yours,”Mazie Fuller.“
“Dear Mr. Blair:
”I am doing a little engagement at Poli’s. Won’t you drop around and see me? I promise not to compel you to play the fireman.
“Sincerely yours,”Mazie Fuller.“
“Jove!” murmured Andy. “I forgot all about her.”
“Any answer?” asked the messenger.
“No.”
The boy started out.
“Oh, yes. Wait a minute.” Andy scribbled an acceptance.
“Here,” he said, and handed the boy a quarter.
“T’anks!” exclaimed the urchin. Then with a roguish glance he added: “Gee, but you college guys is great!”
“Hop along!” commanded Andy briefly.
Should he go, after all? He had said he would and yet——
“Oh, hang it! I guess I’d better go!” he said aloud, just as though he had not intended to all along. He turned up the light and began throwing about a pile of neckties. He tried first one and then another. None seemed to satisfy him, and when he did get the hue that suited him it would not allow itself to be properly tied.
“Oh, rats!” Andy exclaimed. “Why should I care?”
Why indeed? It is one of the mysteries. “Vanity of vanities” and the rest of it.
As he entered Poli’s Andy was aware that something unusual was going on. The ushers were grinning with good-natured tolerance, but there was rather an anxious look on the faces of some of the women in the audience. Some of their male escorts appeared resentful.
Andy had been obliged to purchase a box seat, as there were no vacant ones in the body of the house. As he sank into his chair, rather back, for the box was well filled, he saw a college classmate.
“What’s up?” he asked, the curtain then being down to allow of a change of scene.
“Oh, Gaffington and his crowd are joshing some of the acts.”
“Any row?”
“No, everybody takes it good-naturedly. Bunch of our fellows here to-night.”
“Show any good?”
“Pretty fair. Some of the things are punk. There’s a good number coming—Mazie Fuller—she’s got a new act. And Bodkins—you know the tramp juggler—the one who does things with cigar boxes—he’s coming on next. He’s a scream.”
“Yes, I know him. He’s all right.”
The curtain went up and from the wings came Miss Fuller. She had prospered in vaudeville, it seemed, for she had on a richer costume than the one she wore when she had been so nearly burned to death.
She was well received, and while singing her first number she looked about the house. Presently she caught the eyes of Andy—he had leaned forward in the box, perhaps purposely. MissFuller smiled at him, and at once a chorus of cries arose from the students in the different parts of the theater. Up to then, since Andy’s entrance, there had been no commotion. Now it broke out again.
“Oh, get on to that!”
“The lad with the dreamy eyes!”
“Oh, you Andy Blair!”
Andy sank back blushing, but Miss Fuller took it in good part.
Her act went on, and was well received. She did not again look at Andy, possibly fearing to embarrass him. And then, as she retired after her last number—a veritable whirlwind song—there came a thunder of applause, mingled with shrill whistles, to compel an encore.
Andy was aware of a disturbance in the front of the house. It was where a number of the students were seated, and Andy had a glimpse of Dunk Chamber. Beside him was Gaffington. Dunk had arisen and was swaying unsteadily on his feet.
“Sit down!”
“Keep him quiet!”
“Put him out!”
“Call the manager!”
“Make him sit down!”
Andy began to feel uneasy. He could see the unhappy condition of his roommate and thosewith him. The worst he feared had come to pass.
Swaying, but still managing not to step on anyone, Dunk made his way to the aisle, and then, getting close to the box where Andy sat, climbed over the rail. The manager motioned to an usher not to interfere. Probably he thought it was the best means of producing quiet.
“Here I am, Andy,” announced Dunk gravely.
“So I see,” spoke Andy, his face blazing at the notice he was receiving. “Sit down and keep quiet. There’s a good act coming.”
“Hush!” exclaimed a number of voices as the curtain slid up, to give place to “Bustling Bodkins,” the tramp juggler. The actor came out in his usual ragged make-up, and proceeded to do things with a pile of empty cigar boxes—really a clever trick. Dunk watched him with curious gravity for a while and then started to climb over the footlights on to the stage.
“No, you don’t, Dunk!” cried Andy, firmly, and despite his chum’s protests he hauled him back. Then he took Dunk firmly by the arm and marched him out of a side entrance of the show-house.