“Your mother and I very sorry about your room letter from school arrived after your departure explaining satisfactorily Think you had better stay there however for the present and arrange for single suite when same can be had Love from us both Father.”
“Your mother and I very sorry about your room letter from school arrived after your departure explaining satisfactorily Think you had better stay there however for the present and arrange for single suite when same can be had Love from us both Father.”
Myron’s connection with Parkinson School began inauspiciously. After an eleventh-hour effort to get his studies scheduled, and the discovery that he was required to take two courses he didn’t want to take and to omit one that he did, a summons came to him to visit the Office. There Mr. Morgan, assistant to the Principal, reminded him that attendance at chapel was compulsory and then announced that there appeared to be some doubt that he could enter the second class owing to the fact that his Latin was not up to the requirements. That was disheartening, for Myron had coached on Latin during the summer and been pronounced fit for the third-year class at Parkinson or any other preparatory school. Yesterday he would have received the announcement with unconcern, but today, since the arrival of that disappointing telegram, he found cause in it for real alarm. At well past seventeen one doesn’t like to be put in with fellows who average sixteen, Myron held. As a matter of fact, the third class containedmore students of his age than it did of fellows younger, and he would not have found himself out of place there. But he didn’t know that, and as a result he pleaded very hard to be allowed to enter the class above. In the end, after much hesitation, and with no very good grace, Mr. Morgan consented.
“But you’ll have to do some hard work, Foster, if you’re to stay there. Unless you’re willing to, I’d advise you to go into the third.”
“I’ll work, sir. Maybe I could coach in Latin.”
“Yes, you could do that. If you like, I’ll give you the address of a fellow who does a good deal of tutoring and gets excellent results.” He wrote the address on a slip and Myron tucked it in his pocket. “Well, that’s all, I think. I hope you will get on nicely, Foster. Let me see, your adviser is——”
“Mr. Cooper, sir.”
“Good. Don’t hesitate to consult him. He’s a fine man and you’ll like him immensely, I think. Good morning.”
Myron had a spare hour after dinner and spent it unpacking. When some of his things had been distributed around the study the place really looked fairly homelike and attractive, and he began to look forward to a year at Parkinson withmore equanimity. If only he wasn’t handicapped with his Latin, he thought, things wouldn’t be so bad. With Dobbins out of the way and the study and bedroom to himself, he guessed he could get along fairly comfortably. There was a half-hour of physics at three, and after that he was through for the day. He returned to Sohmer and changed into his football togs, which, unlike the nondescript garments worn by Joe Dobbins, were fairly new and of the best materials. When he had examined himself critically and appreciatively in the glass he sauntered downstairs, skirted the end of the gymnasium building and had his first real look at the playfield.
Nearly twelve acres of still green turf stretched before him, his view uninterrupted save by the grandstand directly before him. To his left were the tennis courts, both clay and grass, and about them white-clad figures darted. Nearer at hand, the blue-grey running track inclosed the first team gridiron. Beyond that two more pairs of goal-posts met his sight, and then the baseball diamonds filled the balance of the field. Track and gridirons and diamonds were already occupied, and the nearer grandstand held a handful of boys who had gathered in the warm sunlight to watch the activities. Football practice was called forthree-thirty, and it was nearly four when Myron reached the field. He was in no hurry to join the panting and perspiring squads that trotted around over the turf, and so he perched himself on one of the lower seats of the stand and looked the situation over.
Not far away the manager and assistant manager, both earnest-looking youths, talked to a stout man in a faded brown sweater who later turned out to be the trainer, Billy Goode. Myron wondered where the coach might be, but he couldn’t find any one who much resembled his idea of what that gentleman should look like. However, with more than a hundred fellows at work out there it was easy enough to overlook him. A squad of advanced players trotted near, going through elementary signal work. Rather to Myron’s surprise, Joe Dobbins was amongst them, sandwiched between two capable-looking youths in togs quite as disreputable as his. Joe was acting as right guard, it seemed. Myron’s opinion of Joe as a football player went up a peg, for it was fairly evident that this squad was made up of last-year fellows and probably contained the nucleus of what in a few days would be known as the first squad. About this time Myron became aware that some of the fellows about him on the grandstandwere viewing him curiously. Doubtless they were wondering why, being in playing togs, he didn’t get down there and go to work. Of course it was none of their business, but maybe it was time he found the coach and reported.
He made inquiry of the manager, a slim, very alert youth armed with a formidable notebook in which he was making entries when Myron approached. “Mr. Driscoll? He’s around here somewhere.” The manager, whose name was Farnsworth, looked frowningly about the field. “Yes, there he is down there, the man with the blue sweater. Are you just reporting for practice?”
“Yes,” answered Myron. “I wasn’t out yesterday.”
“What’s the name?” asked Farnsworth briskly.
“Foster.”
“Foster?” The manager fluttered the leaves of the big notebook until he found the F’s. Then: “What are the initials, Foster?”
“M. W.”
“Class?”
“Third.”
“Ever played before?”
“Naturally.” Farnsworth shot a quick glance.
“Where?” he asked.
“Port Foster High School Team, Port Foster, Delaware. I played two years there.”
“Line or backfield?”
“Backfield: before that at end.”
“Had your physical exam yet?”
“No, I didn’t know about it. Where do I take it?”
“See Mr. Tasser, in the gym. Any time between ten and twelve and four and six. Better do it today. Rules are rather strict, Foster. All right. Report to Cummins. He’s handling the new men. You’ll find him down there by the east goal: ask any one.”
“I though I’d tell the coach——”
“Not necessary. Cummins’ll look after you.”
Myron shrugged mentally and turned his steps toward the indicated location. “One of those smart Alecks,” he thought. “Thinks he’s the whole push. All right, it’s not my business to tell him his. If they want me to waste my time with the beginners it’s their funeral.”
Cummins wasn’t difficult to find. Myron heard his bark long before he reached him. Nearly thirty youths, most of them youngsters of fourteen and fifteen, although here and there an older boy was to be noticed, were learning to handle the ball. Cummins appeared to be about eighteen, aheavily-built chap with a shock of reddish-brown hair and a round face liberally spattered with freckles. Just now the face was scowling ferociously and Cummins was sneering stridently at his charges. Myron took an instant dislike to Mr. Charles Cummins, and, or so it appeared, Mr. Charles Cummins took an equal dislike to Myron.
“Well, well,well, WELL!!” barked Cummins as Myron came up. “What do you fellows think this is? A lawn party or a sewing circle or what? Maybe you’re waiting for the ice-cream to be served? Listen just one minute, will you?Stop that ball, you long-legged fellow! Now then, let’s understand each other. This is football practice. Get that? The idea is to learn to hold that ball without having it get away from you, and to catch it and to pass it. We aren’t doing aesthetic dancing or—or acting in a pageant. This iswork, W-O-R-K, work! Any of you who are out here just to get the air or to tan your necks can quit right now. I’m here to show you hopeless ninnies how to handle a football, and I propose to do it if it takes from now to Christmas, and the sooner you put your minds on what you’re doing andtrya little, the sooner you’ll get through. Now start that ball around again and, for the love of limes,remember some of the things I’ve told you. When you catch it, grab it with both hands and hug it. It isn’t an egg. It won’t break. That’s the idea, Judson, or whatever your name is. Go ahead, go ahead! Get some ginger into it! Pass it along! Don’t go to sleep. I said hug it, not fondle it, Whittier! When you—Hello, more trouble?”
“The manager fellow told me to report to you,” said Myron as Cummins turned a baleful gaze on him.
“Oh, the ‘manager fellow’ told you that, did he? What does the ‘coach fellow’ say?”
“I haven’t seen the coach yet,” answered Myron coldly.
“Haven’t you? Why, say, maybe you won’t like him! Don’t you think you ought to look him over first? It would be fierce if you didn’t happen to approve of him. What’s your name?”
“Foster.”
“All right, Foster, you push right in there and show me how you catch a football. Something tells me that my troubles are all over now that you’ve joined this aggregation of stars!”
Myron suppressed the angry retort that sprang to his lips and took his place in the big circle. “Bounder!” he muttered as he did so. The boynext to him on the left heard and snickered, and Cummins guessed the reason. Unseen of Myron, he grinned. “When you can get ’em mad,” he said to himself, “there’s hope for ’em.”
When the ball was passed to Myron he caught it deftly, bending his body over it, and then promptly sped it on to the youth who had snickered. The latter was unaccustomed to such speed and was not ready, and the ball bounded away. He lumbered after it and scooped it up, returning to his place with an accusing scowl for Myron.
“Think you’re smart, I suppose,” he grumbled.
“Sorry,” said Myron, “but you ought to be ready for it.”
“Is that so? Well——”
“Cut out that talking!” barked Cummins. “Speed it up, fellows!”
There was ten minutes more of the dreary work, during which Myron mechanically received the pigskin and sent it on to the next in the circle without a hitch. If he expected to win commendation from Cummins, however, he was disappointed. Cummins was eloquent with criticism, but never once did he utter a word of approval. At last:
“That’ll do for that, fellows,” he called. “You may rest a minute. Maybe some of you’ll get your strength back.” He approached Myron withan accusing scowl. “What are you doing in this bunch?” he demanded. “You don’t belong here.”
“I was sent here,” replied Myron warmly.
“Didn’t you have sense enough to tell Farnsworth you weren’t a greenie? Think I’ve got nothing to do but waste my time?”
“Well, you’re not the only one who’s doing it, are you? What about my time?”
“That’s your affair. I didn’t want you, believe me! You ought to have told him you knew something about a football. He’s no mind-reader, you know.”
“I told him I’d played two years on a high school team——”
“Oh! That explains it. You high school ginks usually don’t know enough football to make the first year team. Guess Farnsworth thought you were like the run of ’em.”
“Maybe,” replied Myron indifferently, “but it’s not my business to teach you fellows how to run your affairs.”
“Hard luck for us, isn’t it? Well, say, Mr. ’Igh and ’Aughty, you trek across there and tell Farnsworth I say you’re graduated from my bunch. Get it? Tell him to put you somewhere else, and tell him I don’t care where it is!”
“Thanks,” returned Myron with deep sarcasm. “I’m horribly sorry to leave you, though. It’s a real pleasure working under such a gentlemanly instructor, Mr. Cummins.”
Cummins watched him for a long moment with his mouth open. “Well, what do you know about that?” he murmured at last. “The cheeky beggar!” Then he grinned again and, surprising amused and delighted expressions on the countenances of those of his squad who had been near enough to overhear the conversation, quickly changed the grin for a scowl. “All right now!” he barked. “Line up along there. Who’s got the ball? Let’s see what you pin-heads know about starting.”
Myron’s message to Farnsworth resulted in his finishing the practice with a group of fellows whose education had progressed beyond the rudimentary stage. Toward the last of the period he was put to catching punts with a half-dozen other backfield candidates and performed to his own satisfaction at least. There was no scrimmage today, nor was there any for several days following, and at five o’clock Coach Driscoll sent them off to the showers. Later Myron went upstairs and found the physical director and underwent his examination, obtaining a chart filled with perplexinglines and puzzling figures and official permission to engage in “any form of athletics approved by the Committee.” After which he returned rather wearily to Number 17 Sohmer and Joe Dobbins.
The next forenoon Myron set off in a spare hour to find the tutor whose address Mr. Morgan had given him. If he had cherished the notion of possibly getting along without coaching in Latin his experiences that morning had banished it. Mr. Addicks, or Old Addie, as he was called, was a likable sort and popular with the students, but he was capable of a gentle sarcasm that was horribly effective with any one whose skin was less thick than that of a rhinoceros, and an hour or so ago he had caused Myron to heartily wish himself small enough to creep into a floor crack and pull some dust over him! No use talking, Myron told himself as he set forth for Mill Street, he’d have to find this chap and get right to work. He wouldn’t face that horrible Addicks again until he had put in a solid week of being tutored. It would get him in bad at the Office, maybe, if the instructor called on him very often in that week, for he would just say “Not prepared,” but anythingwas to be preferred to standing up there like a jay and letting Addicks make fun of him!
When he reached the head of School Street he pulled the slip of paper again from his pocket and made sure of the address. “A. T. Merriman, 109 Mill Street,” was what was written there. He asked his way at the next corner and was directed across the railroad. “Mill Street runs at right angles to the track,” said the citizen who was directing him. “You’ll see a granite building after you pass the crossing. That’s Whitwell’s Mill. The street you want runs along the farther side of it.” Myron thanked him and went on down School Street. The obliging citizen gazed after him in mingled surprise and admiration.
“Well, he’s certainly a dressy boy,” he murmured. “Must be Old John W. Croesus’s son!”
Mill Street wasn’t far and 109 was soon found, but the character of the district wasn’t at all to Myron’s liking. Ragged and dirty children overflowed the sidewalks and played in the cobbled roadway, slatternly women gossiped from open windows, dejected-looking men lounged at the corners, stray cats rummaged the gutters. The houses, frame structures whose dingy clapboards were flush with the street, had apparently seen far better days. Now dust and grime lay thick onthem and many a window was wanting a pane of glass. The prospect of penetrating to such a place every day was revolting, and, having found the numerals “109” above a sagging porch, Myron was strongly inclined to turn back. But he didn’t, and a tinkle that followed his pull at the rusty knob beside the door brought a stout and frowsy woman who wiped her hands on her apron as she pulled the portal open.
“Mr. Merriman?” inquired Myron.
“I don’t know is he in, sir. One flight up and you’ll see his name on the door. If you come again, sir, just you step right in. The door ain’t never locked in the daytime.”
Myron mounted a creaky stairway guiltless of carpet and found himself in a narrow hall from which four doors opened. In spite of dinginess and want of repairs, the interior of 109 was, he had to acknowledge, astonishingly clean. One of the doors did present a card to the inquiring gaze, but in the gloom its inscription was not decipherable and so Myron chanced it and knocked. A voice answered from beyond the portal and nearly simultaneously a dog barked sharply. Myron entered.
The room was large and well lighted from two sides. It was also particularly devoid of furniture,or so it looked to the visitor. A large deal table strewn with papers and piled with books stood near the centre of the apartment where the cross light from the two pairs of windows fell on it. The floor was carpetless, but two scraps of straw matting saved it from utter bareness. There was a bench under the windows on one side and a flattened cushion and two faded pillows adorned it. What seemed to Myron the narrowest bed in the whole wide world, an unlovely thing of black iron rails, was pushed into a corner, and beside it was a box from which overflowed a grey blanket. Three chairs, one a decrepit armchair from whose leather covering the horsehair stuffing protruded in many places, stood about. There was also a bureau and a washstand. On the end of the former stood a small gas-stove and various pans and cooking utensils. Books, mostly sober-sided, dry-looking volumes, lay everywhere, on table, bureau, window-seat, chair and even on the floor. Between the several articles of furniture lay broad and arid expanses of unpainted flooring.
At first glance the room appeared to be inhabited only by a tall, thin but prepossessing youth of perhaps twenty years and a Scottish terrier whose age was a matter for conjecture since her countenance was fairly well hidden by sandy hair.The youth was seated at the deal table and the terrier was halfway between box and door, growling inquiringly at the intruder. At Myron’s entry Merriman tilted back in his chair, thrust his hands into his trousers pockets and said “Good morning” in a deep, pleasant voice. Then he added mildly: “Shut up, Tess, or I’ll murder you.” The terrier gave a last growl and retired to the box. As she settled down in it a series of astonishing squeaks emerged. Myron looked across startledly and Merriman laughed.
“Puppies,” he explained. “Six of them. That’s why she’s so ferocious. Seems to think every one who comes upstairs is a kidnapper. I tell her the silly things are too ugly to tempt any one, but she doesn’t believe me.”
“Will she let me see them?” asked Myron eagerly.
“Oh, yes.” Merriman drew his long length from the chair and led the way to the box. “Now then, old lady, pile out of here and let the gentleman have a look at your ugly ducklings.”
The terrier made no objection to being removed, but the puppies cried dismally at the parting. Myron chuckled. “Funny things!” he exclaimed. “Why, they haven’t got their eyes open yet!”
“No, they’re only six days old. How’s this onefor a butter-ball? Isn’t he a fat rascal? All right, Tess, we won’t hurt them. I vouch for the gentleman. He never stole a puppy in all his innocent young life.”
“I never did,” Myron corroborated, “but I’d like to start right now!”
“Like dogs, eh?” asked the host.
“Yes, indeed. Funny thing is, though, that I’ve never owned one.”
“No? How does that happen?”
“I don’t know. My mother thinks they’re rather a nuisance around the house. Still, I dare say she’d have let me kept one if I’d insisted. I don’t suppose you—you’d care to sell one of those?”
“Oh, yes, I would. I’ll have to either sell them or give them: unless I send them off to the happy hunting ground.”
“Really? How much would they be?”
“The lot?” asked Merriman, a twinkle in his eye.
“Gee, no! One!”
“Five dollars. Tess is good stock, and the father is a thoroughbred belonging to Terrill, the stableman on Centre Street. Got a place to keep him?”
“I’d forgot about that,” owned Myron. “I’mafraid not. They wouldn’t let me have him in Sohmer, would they?”
“Scarcely!” laughed the other. “All right, old lady, back you go. Sit down—ah—What’s the name, please?”
“Foster. Mr. Morgan gave me your address. I want some tutoring in Latin, and he said he thought you could take me on.”
“Possibly. Just dump those books on the seat there. What hours do you have free, Foster?”
“This hour in the morning and any time in the evening.”
“What about afternoon?”
“I’m trying for the football team and that doesn’t leave me much time afternoons. Still, I guess we’re usually through by five.”
Merriman shook his head. “I’d rather not waste my time and yours, Foster. Football practice doesn’t leave a fellow in very good trim for tutoring. Better say the evening, I guess. How would seven to nine do?”
“Two hours?” asked Myron startledly.
“Yes, you can’t accomplish much in less. I can’t, anyhow.”
“Very well. Seven to nine. Shall I come here or——”
“I’ll come to you. What’s the number inSohmer? Seventeen? All right. We’ll begin tomorrow. My terms are a dollar an hour. You pay for the time it takes me to get to you, usually about ten minutes. Can you arrange with your room-mate to let us have the place to ourselves at that time?”
“Oh, yes,” replied Myron confidently.
“Good. Now pull your chair over here, please, and we’ll see what the job is.”
Merriman had a lean face from which two dark brown eyes looked keenly forth. His mouth was broad and his nose straight and long. A high forehead, a deep upper lip and a firmly pointed chin added to the general effect of length. You couldn’t have called him handsome, by any stretch of the imagination, but there was something attractive in his homeliness. Perhaps it was the expression of the eyes or perhaps the smile that hovered continuously about the wide mouth. He dressed, Myron reflected, as wretchedly as Joe Dobbins: more wretchedly, in fact, for Joe’s clothes were at least new and good of their kind, whereas Merriman’s things were old, frayed, ill-fitting. His trousers, which bagged so at the knees that they made Merriman look crooked, had been a positive shock to the visitor. But in spite of attire and surroundings, Myron liked thisnew acquaintance. Above all, he liked his voice. It was deep without being gruff and had a kind of—of pleasant kindliness in it, he thought. After all, it was no fault to be poor if you couldn’t help it, he supposed; and he had known fellows back home—not intimately, of course, but well enough to talk to—who, while poor, were really splendid chaps.
Presently Merriman finished his questions and finished jotting down little lines and twirls and pot-hooks on a scrap of paper. Myron rather wished he knew shorthand too. It looked ridiculously easy the way Merriman did it. “All right, thanks,” said the latter as he laid his pencil down. “I think I know what we’ve got ahead of us. Frankly, I don’t see how they let you into the third with so little Latin, Foster. But we’ll correct that. How are you at learning, by the way? Does it come easy or do you have to grind hard?”
“Why, I think I learn things fairly easily,” replied Myron doubtfully. “Of course, Latin looks hard to me because I’ve never had much of it, but I think—I hope you won’t find me too stupid.” Afterwards, recalling the visit, it struck him as odd that he should have said that. Usually he didn’t trouble greatly about whether folksfound him one way or another. He was Myron Foster, take him or leave him!
“I shan’t,” answered Merriman. “I’ve had all sorts and I always manage to get results.”
“Do you do much tutoring?” Myron asked.
“A good deal. Not so much now as later. Spring’s my busy time.”
“I shouldn’t think you’d have time for your own studies.”
“I’m not taking much this year. Only four courses. I could have finished last spring, but I wasn’t quite ready for college then. By the way, if you hear of any one wanting a nice puppy I wish you’d send them to me. I can’t keep all that litter and I’d hate to kill the poor little tykes.”
“I will,” Myron assured him. “And—and I’m not sure I shan’t buy one myself. I suppose I could find some one to keep him for me.”
“I think so. Well, good morning. Say good-bye to the gentleman, Tess.”
The terrier barked twice as Myron closed the door behind him.
“Sure! That’s all right,” said Joe Dobbins. “If I want to dig I can trot over to the library or somewhere. Seven to nine, you said?”
“Yes, but it won’t be for very long, I guess: maybe only a couple of weeks. Merriman seemed an awfully clever sort of a chap.”
“Must be if he can teach Latin! I never did see the good of that stuff, anyway.” Joe fluttered the pages of the book he had been studying. After a moment he said: “Say, Foster, you’re a sort of sartorial authority—how’s that for language, eh?—and you know what’s what in the line of clothes, I guess. Now I wish you’d tell me honestly if there’s anything wrong with the things I wear. They look all right to me, but I notice two or three of the fellows sort of piping ’em off like they were wondering about ’em. What’s wrong with the duds?” And Joe glanced over the grey suit, with the large green and blue threads running through it, that he was wearing.
“Why, they——” But Myron paused. Threedays before he would not have hesitated to render a frank opinion of the clothes; would have welcomed the opportunity, in fact: but this afternoon he found that he didn’t want to hurt Joe’s feelings.
“Spit it out, kiddo—I mean Foster! Let’s know the worst.”
“Well, I suppose they’re good material and well made, Dobbins, but the fact is they—they’re different, if you see what I mean.”
“I don’t. Whatdoyou mean, just? Style all wrong by Fifth Avenue standards?”
“By any standard,” replied Myron firmly. “They look ready-made.”
“But, gee, theyareready-made! I never had a suit made to order in my life. Why should I? I’m not hump-backed or—or got one leg longer than the other!”
“Some ready-made clothes don’t look it, though,” explained Myron. “Yours do. Did you get them in Portland?”
“Sure. We’ve got some dandy stores in Portland.”
“Did that suit come from the best one?” asked Myron drily.
“N-no, it didn’t, to tell the hideous truth.” Joe chuckled. “You see, the old man has a friendwho runs a store and we’ve both got sort of used to dealing with this guy. He’s a pretty square sort, too; a Canuck. Peter Lafavour’s his name. But I guess maybe Peter doesn’t know so much about style as he makes out to, eh? I always sort of liked these duds, though: they’re sort of—er—snappy, eh?”
Myron smiled. “They’re too snappy, Dobbins. That’s one out with them. Then they don’t fit anywhere. And they look cheap and badly cut.”
“Aside from that they’re all right, though?” asked Joe hopefully.
“Perhaps, although gentlemen aren’t wearing pockets put on at an angle or cuffs on the sleeves.”
“And Peter swore that this suit was right as rain!” sighed Joe. “Ain’t he the swine? How about my other one?”
“Well, it’s better cut and hasn’t so many queer folderols,” answered Myron, “but it looks a good deal like a grain-sack when you get it on, old man.”
“What do you know about that!” Joe shook his head dismally, but Myron caught the irrepressible twinkle in his room-mate’s eyes. “Guess I’ll have to dig down in the old sock and buy me a new outfit,” he continued. “I suppose those tony-looking duds you wear were made toorder, eh? Think your tailor could make me a suit if I wrote and told him what size collar I wear?”
“I’m afraid not, but I saw a tailor shop in the village here today that looked pretty good. Why not try there?”
“Blamed if I don’t, kid—Foster! I don’t suppose you’d want to go along with me and see that I get what’s right? I’d hate to find I had too many buttons on my vest—I mean waistcoat—when the things were done!”
“I don’t mind,” answered Myron after an imperceptible moment of hesitation, “although you really won’t need me if the chap knows his business. No first-class tailor will turn you out anything that isn’t correct.”
“Yeah, but—well, I’d feel easier in my mind if I had you along. Maybe tomorrow, eh? Somehow these duds I’ve got on don’t make such a hit with me as they did! Coming over to the gym? It’s mighty near time for practice.”
“In a minute,” answered Myron carelessly. “You run along.” Then he reflected that if he was to go with Joe to the tailor’s the next day he might just as well start in now and get used to being seen with him. “Guess I’m ready, though,” he corrected. “Come on.”
The distance from Sohmer to the gym was only a matter of yards, and it wasn’t until the two reached the entrance of the latter building that they encountered any one. Then, or so Myron imagined, the three fellows who followed them through the big oak door looked curiously from Joe’s astounding attire to his own perfectly correct grey flannels. He was glad when the twilight of the corridor was reached, and all the way down the stairs to the locker-room below he was careful to avoid all suggestions of intimacy with Joe.
Football was still in the first rather chaotic phase. An unusually large number of candidates had reported this fall, and, while in theory it was a fine thing to have so much material to select from, in reality it increased the work to be done tremendously. On the second day of school one hundred and twelve boys of all sizes and ages and all degrees of inexperience were on hand, and coach, captain and trainer viewed the gathering helplessly. Today a handful of the original number had dropped out of their own accord, but there were still nearly a hundred left, and when Myron, having changed to his togs, followed the dribble of late arrivals to the field he wondered what on earth would be done with themall. Perhaps Coach Driscoll was wondering the same thing, for there was a perplexed frown on his face as he talked with Billy Goode and contemplatively trickled a football from one hand to the other.
Myron rather liked the looks of Mr. Driscoll. So far he had not even spoken to the coach and doubted if the latter so much as knew of his existence, but there was something in the coach’s face and voice and quick, decisive movements that told Myron that he knew his business. “Tod” Driscoll was about thirty, perhaps a year or two more, and had coached at Parkinson for several seasons. He was a Parkinson graduate, but his football reputation had been made at Yale. He was immensely popular with the students, although he made no effort to gain popularity and was the strictest kind of a disciplinarian. Today, while Myron, pausing at the edge of the crowded gridiron a few yards distant, viewed him and speculated about him, the coach showed rather less decision than usual, for twice he gave instructions, once to Billy and once to the manager, and each time changed his mind.
“We’ve got to find more instructors,” Myron heard him say a trifle impatiently. “How about you, Ken? Know enough football to take a bunchof those beginners over to the second team gridiron?”
“I’m afraid not, Coach,” answered Kenneth Farnsworth.
“You don’t need to know much. What do you say, Billy? Who is there? I’ve got most of the veterans at work already, and there isn’t one of them that shouldn’t be learning instead of teaching.”
Myron didn’t hear the trainer’s reply, for at that moment a well-built, light-haired, somewhat harassed youth of apparently nineteen strode up to the group. “Look here, Coach,” he began before he was well within talking distance, “what about the backs? We’ve got to have some get-together work before Saturday’s game, haven’t we? Cater says you’ve got him in charge of a kindergarten class, Brown’s sewed up the same way, Garrison hasn’t shown up——”
“I know, Cap. But what are we going to do with this raft of talent? Some one’s got to take hold of them, and I can’t take more than twenty. Cummins is about ready to go on strike——”
“Itisa mess, isn’t it?” Captain Mellen turned and viewed the scene puzzledly. “The worst of it is that there probably aren’t a dozen in the whole lot worth troubling with.”
“True, but we’ve got to find the dozen,” answered Mr. Driscoll. “We can’t afford to miss any bets this year, Cap. We’ll call the first-choice backs together at four. That’ll give us half an hour for kindergarten stuff. But I want a couple more fellows to take hold. Who are they?”
“Search me! Why not double them up, sir?”
“They’ve been doubled up—or pretty nearly. Cummins has about thirty to look after and Cater twenty-four or five. That’s too many. Sixteen’s enough for a squad. How about Garrison?”
“He isn’t here. I don’t know what——”
“He’s cut,” interposed Farnsworth. “Got a conference at four.”
“Conference! Gee, why couldn’t he have that some other time?” asked Jud Mellen.
“Time to start, sir,” said Farnsworth, looking at his watch.
“All right, let’s get at it. But I wish I could think—Who’s that fellow there, Mellen?” Mr. Driscoll dropped his voice. Mellen turned and looked at Myron and shook his head.
“I don’t know him, Coach. Who is he, Ken?”
“I think”—Farnsworth turned the pages of his book until he had found the F’s—“I think his name is Forrest. No, Foster. High school fellow.Two years playing. Passed a corking physical exam.”
“Foster!”
Myron, who had been aware that he was under discussion, joined the group. “Yes, sir?” he asked.
“Think you could take about twenty fellows over to the next field and show them how to handle the ball? You know the sort of stuff, don’t you? Passing, falling, starting and so on. Want to try it?”
“Yes, sir, I can do it all right.”
“Good! We’ve got such a mob here today that we’re short-handed. Stick to me a minute and I’ll round you up a bunch.”
“You can’t call him exactly modest, can you?” asked the manager of Billy Goode when the others had walked away. “‘I can do it all right,’ says he.”
“How do you know he can’t?” asked Billy. “And if he can there ain’t any harm in his saying so, is there? Say, if I was starting my life over again, my friend, I’d say yes to everything like that any one asked me. I missed a lot of good chances by being too modest.”
“And truthful?” laughed Kenneth.
“Let it go at modest,” said Billy smiling.
Myron received eighteen boys as his portion and led them across to the second team gridiron and set to work. Four other awkward squads adorned the field, the nearer one being under the care of Charles Cummins. Myron smiled secretly when he saw the surprised stare with which Cummins regarded him. When their glances met Cummins nodded shortly. To put his class through the third lesson was no trick for Myron, but it was dreary and tiresome work. It seemed to him that Coach Driscoll must have deliberately apportioned to him the stupidest boys on the field, for of all the awkward squads Myron had ever had anything to do with his was the awkwardest. But some few presently began to respond to treatment and by the time they were jumping out of the line and digging knees and elbows and shoulders into the turf in the effort to land on the trickling pigskin he felt that he hadn’t done so badly with them. He didn’t say much to them, for his own experience had shown him that too much instruction and criticism only confused the pupil, and neither did he try to impress them with their stupidity. As a result, most of them eventually forgot to be self-conscious and tried to follow instructions. Watching, Myron heard a voice at his elbow and looked around into the face of Cummins, who,giving his own charges a moment of rest, had walked across unnoticed.
“How doyoulike it?” Cummins inquired shortly.
“There are other things I’d rather be doing,” replied Myron. He didn’t feel particularly friendly toward this chap who had badgered him so a day or two before, and his tone showed it. A smile flickered around the corners of Cummins’ mouth.
“Main thing,” he said gravely, “is to be patient with them. I find that pays best.”
Myron turned and looked at him wonderingly. “That sounds well,” he replied sarcastically. Cummins grinned.
“Got it in for me, haven’t you?” he said. “Don’t blame you—er—Whatever Your Name Is. I was never cut out for a teacher. Besides, I want to get to work myself. What’s your line? Tackle?”
“I don’t know. Whatever I get, I suppose. Try that again, you chap. Get started quicker. I played half-back last year.”
“Guard’s my game. Well, I guess I’d better go back and hound those fellows some more. See you again, Foster, if I live.”
Myron wondered why Cummins had pretendednot to recall his name at first. “Just to be as disagreeable as possible, I guess,” he concluded. Cummins’ hectoring voice floated across the field just then: “All right, my hearties! Line up again and, for the love of limes, look intelligent if you can’t act so!”
Ten minutes later the awkward squads were called to the bench and Myron went to work on Squad D or E, he didn’t know which it was, and trotted around the field behind a shrill-voiced quarterback, practising a handful of elementary plays that he already knew by heart. He wondered how long it would be before some one in authority discovered that they were wasting the time of a first-class half-back!
Parkinson played Mapleton the first Saturday after the opening of school and had no difficulty in scoring as she pleased, confining herself mainly to old-style line-bucking attack. Mapleton was not, however, a strong opponent, and the final score of 18 to 0 was not particularly complimentary to the home team. There was much ragged playing on both sides, for neither team had had more than a week of preparation. Parkinson started with four of last year’s players in the line and two behind it. The substitutes, of whom many were used before the contest was over, were not notably brilliant, with the possible exception of a lad named Keene, who went in as left end in the final five minutes, and of Joe Dobbins who played a steady game at right tackle for the entire fourth period. Myron, watching from the bench with half a hundred others, viewed Joe’s success with mingled emotions. He was rather surprised at Joe’s skill, but he was not a little disgruntled at the ease with which that raw youth had attainedhis success. Here was he, Myron, still kicking his heels with the fourth or fifth squad, while Joe, who played no better and knew no more football, was already chosen as possible school team material. Myron secretly thought it a “raw deal.” He had become fairly reconciled to remaining at Parkinson, but this afternoon he again began to suspect that his talents and merits were not to receive the consideration they deserved and to wish that he had been able to go elsewhere. They had worked him off on the kindergarten class as instructor two afternoons and he had received no thanks for his labours. Aside from that, he had received no sort of recognition. He might just as well be one of the raw recruits! He suspected that it might pay him to push himself forward a little: he believed that Joe had done that. But then Joe was just the sort of chap who would see nothing out of the way in self-advertisement. Although Myron held a very good opinion of himself as a football player he considered it beneath his dignity to beg for favours. If Coach Driscoll couldn’t discover talent for himself then he could do without it. “I’ll give them another week or so,” decided Myron, “and then if they haven’t given me a show I’ll quit.”
He was rather chilly toward Joe that evening.
The Latin was progressing well. Merriman saw that it did. He arrived like clockwork every evening save Sunday at exactly ten minutes past seven, spread his books and papers without the loss of a minute and had no breath for extraneous matters. “Good evening” was the extent of his small-talk. After that it was business with him. When, on the occasion of his first appearance in 17 Sohmer, Myron asked him how the puppies were getting along, Merriman frowned and said: “You aren’t paying me to talk puppies, Foster. Have you found the page?” Having finished the two-hour session, Merriman dropped his books into a green-cloth bag, took up his hat, said “Good-night, Foster,” and went. That, at least, was the usual procedure, but this Saturday night he varied it. When he had pulled the string of that green bag close he laid it beside his hat and asked: “Doing anything?”
“Doing—oh, no, not a thing,” answered Myron.
“Then I’ll stick around a few minutes.” Merriman pulled a chair toward him and settled his feet on it and sighed luxuriously. “I suppose you saw the game this afternoon. You told me you were out for the team, didn’t you?”
“Yes.” Myron’s voice may have sounded disgruntled, for Merriman smiled faintly and asked:
“What’s the matter? Working you too hard?”
“No, they aren’t working me at all,” replied Myron bitterly. “I mean, all I’m doing is going through a lot of stunts I learned two years ago. I guess things are sort of balled up this year. They’ve got so many candidates out there that they can’t begin to handle them all, and I dare say I’ll be just where I am in November—if I stay.”
“Cheer up,” said the other. “They’ll let you go before that.”
“But, hang it, Merriman, I’ve played the game for two years: more than that, counting when I was a kid: and I was captain of my team last year. That may not mean much to these fellows here, but at least it ought to secure me a chance to show what I can do.”
“Seems so. Doesn’t it? I mean, aren’t you getting a chance?”
“No, I’m not,” answered Myron warmly. “I’m fuddling around with about fifteen or sixteen other fellows, most of whom never saw a football until a week ago, and getting nowhere. No one pays any attention to you here. They just say ‘Report to Jones or Smith or some one’ and forget all about you.”
“Hm. Why not tell Driscoll you want a real try-out?”
“Why can’t he see that I deserve one? It isn’t my place to select his players for him!”
“N-no, but if there are so many candidates that he’s likely to overlook you——”
Merriman was interrupted by the entrance of Joe Dobbins. It was well after nine and Joe thought he was privileged to return home. Finding Merriman still there, however, he hesitated at the door. “Hello! I thought you were through, Foster. I’ll beat it.”
“We are through,” said Merriman. “I’m going myself in a minute.”
“Oh, all right. Don’t let me scare you away, though.”
Myron performed the introduction and the two boys shook hands.
“Glad to know you,” said Joe heartily. “Any guy who knows enough Latin to teach it to others can have my vote every time!”
Myron frowned. He wished that Joe wouldn’t talk so much like a rowdy, and he glanced at Merriman to see how that youth had taken his room-mate’s breeziness. Apparently Merriman was neither pained nor surprised. Instead, he was regarding Joe with smiling interest. “Thanks,” he said, “but being able to teach Latin to others doesn’t amount to much, Dobbins. When theother fellow knows a little less about any subject than you do you can trust a lot to bluff.”
“Ain’t that the truth?” exclaimed Joe, flinging himself into a chair. “Look at Foster there. He’s been teaching a lot of poor dubs how to catch a football, and I dare say they think he invented the game!” He winked at the visitor and grinned at Myron. The latter, however, was not feeling kindly enough toward Joe to take the joke gracefully. He flushed and scowled.
“I dare say I know as much football as some fellows who played this afternoon,” he said huffily.
“Right you are, kiddo! But that isn’t saying a whole lot. Some of those guys were pretty green, I thought. Did you see the game?” He looked at Merriman and the latter shook his head.
“No, I would have liked to, for, although I never played, I’m a regular football fan. But I don’t have much time for the games. I take it that you played today.”
“Me? A little. They put me in for the last quarter. Guess they didn’t have any one else.”
“Where do you play?” asked Merriman.
“Tackle, guard, anywhere around there. It’s a great game, football. I’d rather play it than—than study Latin! Say, you’re the guy that hasthe puppies, aren’t you? Foster was telling me. I’d like to see ’em. I’m crazy about dogs.”
“Come around some day,” replied Merriman cordially. “You’ll find me in usually between nine and ten and one and two.”
“I’ll just do that little thing,” Joe agreed. “Gee, if I had a place to keep one of ’em I’d fall for it. Maybe if I find a room outside I’ll buy one off you.”
“Glad to sell you one, Dobbins. I’ve got five that I don’t need. Well, I must be getting back. By the way, I’m home all the morning tomorrow. If you like to drop around I’ll be glad to show you my children.”
“It’s a go,” said Joe heartily. “Have ’em all dressed up for company, eh? I’ll be there.”
“Nice guy,” observed Joe when Merriman had taken his departure. “I sure do like a fellow that looks cheerful. Ever notice how many of the chaps here look like they’d just eaten a sour pickle, Foster? It doesn’t cost a cent more to look cheerful, either.”
“Your idea of looking cheerful is to grin like a codfish all the time,” growled Myron. “I’d rather look the other way.”
“Huh! Ever have a good look at a codfish,kiddo? He looks as sour as—as you do this minute! Has his mouth all drawn down, you know. Maybe he’s a real merry sort of a guy when he’s in the water, but he sure doesn’t look that way when he’s out of it!”
“Never mind how I look,” said Myron sharply. “And cut out that ‘kiddo.’ I’ve spoken about that often enough.”
“Oh, all right. My error.” Joe winked gravely at the lamp. After a moment he asked: “When’s that furniture of yours coming?”
“I don’t know. It should have been here before this. Why?”
“Nothing. I was just wondering. I was looking at a room on Union Street this afternoon. A fellow’s got it now, but the dame says he’s going to move out next week. I’d have to furnish it myself, of course. I suppose furniture costs a good bit, eh?”
“Some of it,” answered Myron.
“Maybe I could get some second-hand things, though. I wouldn’t need much. The trouble with the dive is that it has only one window and that looks out on a back yard full of washing. There’s something sort of—of dejecting about a lot of clothes on a line. Don’t know why, either. How’d you like the game?”
“All right, I guess.”
“How did I do?”
“You know as well as I, don’t you? I wasn’t watching you particularly.”
“That’s funny,” chuckled Joe. “I thought every one was watching me hard. Anyway, the guy I played opposite was! That was an easy bunch, though. Their backs weren’t on the job at all. Maybe I wouldn’t rip them up if I was their coach! They say next Saturday’s game will be a real one, though. Hope they let me in again. How are you coming on, by the way?”
“I’m not coming on,” said Myron. “I’m getting a bit sick of it, and if they think I’m going to stand much more of their silly nonsense they’re mistaken. I’m all right to coach a lot of greenies, it seems, but after that I can whistle. I wouldn’t mind if I couldn’t play as well as half the fellows that were in the game today.”
“I guess your time’s coming,” said Joe consolingly. “They’ll be weeding them out next week, and when they’ve got rid of about forty of them they’ll be able to see what’s left.”
“If they don’t hurry I won’t be one of those left,” said Myron grumpily, “and that’s flat. I wish I’d stuck to my first scheme and gone to Kenwood. There are fewer fellows there andmaybe a chap might have a chance to get somewhere.”
Joe shook his head disapprovingly. “I’m glad you didn’t do that,” he said. “Sort of sounds like treason or something. Say, how’d you happen to change your mind, anyway? Old man kick at it?”
Myron had not gone into particulars regarding his decision to remain at Parkinson but had told Joe that “he guessed he’d try to stick it out.” If Joe had surmised the real reason for the overnight change of heart he had kept the fact to himself. Now Myron hesitated. He didn’t want the real reason known nor did he want to tell Joe a lie. So he answered: “There wasn’t any kick, but as you spoke of going to the village I thought—that is—my father thought——”
“Oh, he knew about that, eh?”
“Who? About what?”
“Your father: about me thinking of getting a room outside.”
“Not exactly, only he thought I might get a place to myself later.”
“You’re a punk liar, Foster,” laughed Joe. “The old man put your little scheme on the blink when he telegraphed to you. Now didn’t he?”
“About that,” confessed Myron a bit sheepishly.
“Sure! I knew it all the time. And he was dead right, too. I’m going to talk sense to you, Foster, whether you get sore or not. The trouble with you is that folks have made you think you’re something a little bit better than the common run of fellows. You’ve always had everything you’ve wanted and you’ve been kept pretty close to the old million dollar hut, and I guess when you were a youngster you didn’t have many fellows to play around with because your folks thought they might be sort of rough and teach you to throw snowballs and wrestle and all those vulgar things. And you’re the only kid, too, aren’t you?”
“Yes,” said Myron loftily, “but if you’ll kindly mind your own business——”
“Shan’t,” said Joe unruffledly. “You listen a minute. What I’m telling you’s for your own good, just like everything nasty. Being an only kid with rich parents and servants to tuck your napkin around your neck and everything is mighty hard on a fellow. It—it mighty near ruins him, Foster! You aren’t exactly a ruin—yet, but you’re sure headed that way. Why, doggone you, why ain’t I good enough to room with? What you got that counts that Iain’t got! Same number of arms and legs, eh? Wear about the same size hat, don’t we? Some fellows would have punched your head if you’d lorded it over ’em the way you did over me that first day. Why——”
“You try it!” said Myron wrathfully.
“Well, you look like a fair scrapper, but I don’t believe you ever had a good fight in your life. Anyway, that’s not the question. What I want to know is where you got your license to act like you’re better than the next guy. Money don’t make you that way, nor classy clothes, nor knowing how to get into a limousine without falling over your feet. Hang it, Foster, you’d be all right if you’d just forget that your old man owns a ship-yard and get it into your bean that other fellows are human even if they wear hand-me-downs and would try to shake hands with the butler! Think it over, old horse, and see if I ain’t right.”
“I don’t have to think it over. You ‘ain’t’ right.” Myron laughed contemptuously. “You think——”
“Yeah, I’m likely to say ‘ain’t’ when I get excited,” replied Joe, “but I’ll get over that in time.”
“You think that just because I wear decentclothes I’m stuck-up,” protested Myron hotly. “I’ve never said or pretended that I am better than—than any one else! As for rooming with you, I explained that. I was to have a room to myself. That was understood.”
“All right,” said Joe soothingly. “But when you found you couldn’t be by yourself why didn’t you face it like a sport! And why turn up your nose as if they’d asked you to bunk in with the Wild Man of Borneo?”
“I’d just as lief,” sputtered Myron. “He wouldn’t be any wilder than you are!”
“Yeah, but wait till you see me in those new duds we ordered,” said Joe pleasantly. “Maybe you’ll be real proud of me then. Wouldn’t wonder if you’d almost speak to me when there’s other fellows looking!”
Myron flushed and his eyes fell. “That’s a rotten thing to say, Dobbins,” he muttered.
“True, though, ain’t—isn’t it?”
“No, it isn’t!”
“My mistake then. Sorry. Well, I’m for the old bed. I suppose I might have kept my mouth shut and minded my own business, like you said, but that mess of talk’s been sort of accumulating ever since we came together and I feel better for getting rid of it, whether you do or not! Sorryif I said anything to hurt your feelings, Foster.”
“Don’t worry. You didn’t. What you say doesn’t cut any ice with me.”
“Then there’s no harm done, eh? Nor good either. It may make you happier to know that I’ve decided to take that room I told you about, though. The guy that’s in it now moves out next Friday and faculty’s given me leave to change. That ought to give you sweet dreams, eh?”
“It will,” replied Myron acidly.
The next morning Joe was as cheerful and smiling and good-natured as ever, but Myron wasn’t yet ready to forget, and his responses to his room-mate’s overtures were brief and chilling. After breakfast, which on Sundays was a half-hour later, Joe suggested that Myron walk over to the village with him and visit Merriman and see the puppies. Myron wanted to go, for the day was chill and cloudy and generally depressing, but his pride wouldn’t let him and so he answered shortly that he had seen the puppies and he guessed they hadn’t changed much. When Joe had taken himself off Myron felt horribly out-of-sorts and was heartily glad when church time came and, immaculately but soberly attired, he could set forth across the campus. Dinner was at one o’clock, a more hearty repast than most of the fellows needed after a morning spent in comparative idleness. However, no one skimped it. Myron went right through from soup to ice-cream, becoming more and more heavy and gloomy underthe effects of an overloaded stomach. He had been placed at a table near the serving-room doors, and, while some of his companions declared that you got your things quicker and hotter by being so close to the source of supplies, Myron disliked having the doors flap back and forth directly behind his back and detested the bursts of noise and aroma that issued forth at such times. Today he resented those annoyances more than ever and found the conversation about him more than ordinarily puerile.
There were a good many third class boys at his table, fellows of fourteen and fifteen, whose deportment was anything but staid. They were much given to playing practical jokes on each other, such as surreptitiously salting a neighbour’s milk or sprinkling pepper in his napkin. And they were not above flicking pellets of bread when the nearest faculty member was not looking. Each table had a “Head” whose duty it was to see that proper decorum was observed. In some cases the Head was one of the faculty, in other cases he was an older boy. The Head at Myron’s table was a second class chap named Rogers, a stoutish, easy-going fellow who was generally so busy eating everything he could lay hands to that he had no time for correcting hischarges. It was unfortunate that young Tinkham, the pink-cheeked, sandy-haired little cherub who sat almost opposite Myron, should have selected today for his experiment with the bread pellet. Tinkham had longed for days to see if he could lodge a pellet against Myron’s nose. To Tinkham that nose looked supercilious and contemptuous and seemed to fairly challenge assault. Until now Tinkham had never been able to summon sufficient courage to dare the sacrilege, but today there was a demoralising atmosphere about and so when, having eaten his ice-cream and having nothing further to live for anyway, he saw Myron’s gaze wander toward the further end of the hall Tinkham drew ammunition from under the edge of his butter dish and with an accuracy born of long practice let fly. His aim proved perfect. Myron dropped his spoon and sped a hand to his outraged nose. Before him, perched on the remains of his ice-cream, was the incriminating missile, and of all those who had witnessed the deed only one remained unsmiling, demure and innocent, and that one was the cherubic, fair-haired Tinkham.
Myron lost his temper instantly and completely. “That was you, Tinkham! I saw you!” The latter statement was hardly truthful, but Tinkhamdidn’t challenge it. He only looked surprised and pained. “You try that again and I’ll box your silly little ears for you! Remember that, too!” Myron flicked the bread pellet disgustedly aside and glowered at the offender.
“Boo!” said one of Tinkham’s friends, and the younger element became convulsed with laughter. At that, Rogers, who had been bending absorbedly over his dessert, looked up.
“Cut that out, fellows,” he remonstrated feebly.
“We’re only laughing,” giggled one of the boys.
“Wake up, Sam,” said Eldredge, who was Rogers’ age and had viewed the proceedings with unconcealed amusement. “You’re missing all the fun. If you didn’t eat so much——”
“If he didn’t eat so much he might keep order at the table,” said Myron.
Rogers was too surprised to reply, but Eldredge took up the cudgels in his behalf. “Oh, don’t be a grouch, Foster,” he sneered. “The kid didn’t hurt you. It was only fun.”
“I don’t like the kind, then,” answered Myron haughtily. “After this he can leave me out of his ‘fun.’”
“Oh, piffle! Come back to earth! If I’d been Tinkham I’d have shied the whole loaf at you. Then you’d have had something to kick about.”
“The something would have been you, then,” retorted Myron.
“Would it? Is that so?” Eldredge glared angrily across the table. “Think you’re man enough to kick me, do you? Why, say——”
“Dry up, Paul!” begged Rogers. “Tasser’s got his eye on you.”
“I won’t dry up,” retorted the insulted Eldredge. Nevertheless he dropped his voice beyond the hearing of the neighbouring instructor. “If that stuck-up mollycoddle thinks he can talk about kicking me and get away with it he’s all wrong, believe me!” The younger boys were listening in open delight and Tinkham was fairly squirming with excitement. “Get that, Foster?”
“I heard you,” replied Myron indifferently.
“You did, eh? Well, any time you feel like——”
“Rogers, what’s wrong at your table?” It was Mr. Tasser’s voice, and Eldredge stopped suddenly and gulped back the rest of his remark.
“I—I—that is, nothing, sir,” stammered the Head. Then, to Eldredge in an imploring whisper: “Shut up, will you?” he begged. “Want to get me in wrong?” Eldredge muttered and shot venomous looks at Myron while the youngsters sighed their disappointment. Myron folded hisnapkin and arose leisurely, aware of the unsympathetic regard of his companions, and walked out. In the corridor he waited for a minute or two. He had no desire to carry matters any further with Paul Eldredge, but he felt that if he hurried away that youth might misconstrue the action. However, Eldredge didn’t appear and so Myron went across to Sohmer, still sore and irritated, to find an empty study. Eldredge’s failure to follow Myron out of the dining hall had been due entirely to discretion. With Mr. Tasser’s penetrant and suspicious gaze on him, he decided that it would be wise to avoid all seeming interest in Myron.
Joe failed to return to the room, and after trying to do some studying and finding that he simply couldn’t keep his mind on his task, Myron pulled a cap on and sallied forth again. It was misting by then, and a chilling suggestion of autumn was in the air. When he had mooned along the country road that led toward Cumner for a mile or so without finding anything of interest he turned back toward the town. A hot chocolate in a corner drug store restored his spirits somewhat and, having no better place to go, he crossed the railroad and made his way through the dreary quarter that held the residence of Merriman. He didn’t suppose Merriman would be in, but it was somethingto do. Recalling former instructions, he didn’t bother to ring the bell this time, but opened the door and climbed the dark stairway to the second floor. That Merriman was in became known to him before he had groped his way to the room, for from beyond the closed portal came the sound of voices. For a moment Myron hesitated. He hadn’t bargained on finding visitors there. But the loneliness of Number 17 Sohmer on this Sunday afternoon decided him, and he knocked. Merriman’s voice bade him enter and he opened the door on a surprising scene.
On the decrepit window-seat reclined Joe Dobbins. Close by, in the room’s one armchair, with his feet on a second chair, was Merriman. Between the two was a corner of the deal table, dragged from its accustomed place, and on the table was the remains of a meal: some greasy plates, a coffee pot, cups, bits of bread, about a third of a pie, a half-eaten banana, a jar of milk. The room, in spite of a wide-open window, smelled of sausages. On Joe’s chest reposed Tess, the terrier, evidently too full of food and contentment to bark, and in Merriman’s lap was a squirming bunch of puppies.
“Come in, Foster,” called the host genially. “Pardon me if I don’t get up, but just now I amweighted with family cares. Find a chair and draw up to our cosy circle. Have you had food? There’s some pie left, and I can heat some coffee for you in a second.”