“I’ve had dinner, thanks, a good while ago.” He carefully lifted a dozen or so books from a chair and took it across to the window. He felt rather intrusive. And there was Joe grinning at him from the seat, and he was supposed to have a grouch against Joe.
“Well, have a piece of pie, won’t you?” begged Merriman hospitably. “Sure? We were sort of late with our feed. What time is it, anyway? Great Scott, Dobbins, it’s nearly four! How long have we been sitting here?”
“I’ve been here ever since I worried down that last piece of pie,” said Joe, “and I guess that was about an hour and a half ago. You ought to have showed up earlier, Foster. You missed a swell feed!”
“Sausages and potatoes and pie,” laughed Merriman. “Still, we managed to nearly kill ourselves: at least, I did.” Joe groaned and shifted the terrier to a new position. “Been for a walk, Foster?”
“Yes. It’s a rotten day, isn’t it?”
“Is it?” Merriman glanced through the windowin faint surprise. “I hadn’t noticed. Sort of cloudy I see. By the way, I’ve sold one of these little beggars.”
“Have you? They’ve got their eyes open, haven’t they?”
“Sort of half open,” chuckled Merriman. “Maybe they’re too fat to open them any wider. This is the one that’s sold. His name is—what was it you named him, Dobbins?”
“Zephaniah,” answered Joe gravely, “Zephaniah Q. Dobbins.”
“What’s the Q for?” laughed Merriman.
“Haven’t decided yet. I just put that in for the sound. You see, Foster, I’m calling him Zephaniah after an old codger who used to live near us up at Hecker’s Falls, Maine. Zephaniah Binney was his name. He used to be a cook in the logging camps, but he got so fat tasting the things he cooked that he had to quit. After that he used to sit in front of his shack all day, tilted back in a chair, and look for work.”
“Look for work?” laughed Merriman.
“Yeah, he was always on the look-out for a job. ’Most strained his eyes looking. But somehow he never found one; leastways, he hadn’t when I saw him last. Funny old codger. Warren Wilson, who was postmaster and ran the store andone thing and another, used to bring the Bangor paper to Zeph every day and Zeph would study the advertisements mighty carefully. Guess he knew more about the Bangor labour market than any man alive. ‘I was readin’ where one o’ them big dry-goods houses is wantin’ a sales manager,’ Zeph would tell you. ‘It don’t say how much they’re willin’ to pay, though. If I knew that I’d certain’y communicate with ’em, I would so. Maybe they’ll make mention o’ the salary tomorrow. I’ll just wait an’ see.’”
“And he’s still waiting?” chuckled Merriman.
“As far as I know.”
“What does he live on?” asked Myron. “Has he got money saved?”
“No, he’s got something better; he’s got an up-and-coming wife who works just as hard as Zeph—looks. She’s a wonderful woman, too, Mrs. Binney is. She’s lived with Zeph thirty years or more and she ain’t—hasn’t found him out yet. Or, if she has, she don’t let on. If you ask her has Zeph got a job yet she’ll tell you, ‘No, not yet, but he’s considerin’ acceptin’ a position with a firm o’ commission merchants down to Boston.’ And all the considering Zeph has done is read an advertisement in the Bangor paper where itsays the Boston folks want a few carloads of potatoes!”
“It’s sort of tough on the puppy, though,” murmured Myron.
“Well, there’s a strong resemblance between him and Zephaniah,” said Joe. “I’ve been watching him. He doesn’t push and shove for his food like the rest of them. He just waits, and first thing you know he’s getting the best there is. If that ain’t like Zeph I’ll eat my hat.”
“Where are you going to keep him?” inquired Myron.
“In my room—when I get it. He won’t want any better than I have, I guess. I don’t suppose he’s going to kick because there isn’t much of a view.”
Merriman asked about the new quarters and Joe supplied a drily humorous description of them. The room began to grow dark and the boy’s faces became only lighter blurs in the twilight. Tess went to sleep and snored loudly. Myron listened more than he talked, conscious of the comfortable, home-like atmosphere of the queer, illy-furnished room and putting off from minute to minute the return to school. But at last the town clock struck six and Joe lifted the terrier from his stomach, in spite of protests, and swung his feet to the floor.
“I’ve got to be going,” he announced. “Haven’t peeked into a book since Friday.” He yawned cavernously. “You coming along, Foster?”
“Yes, I guess so.” Myron was glad to be asked, but he was careful to keep any trace of cordiality from his voice.
“Well, come again,” said Merriman heartily. “Both of you. Sunday’s an off-day with me and you’ll usually find me in about noon.”
“Me? I’ll be back,” declared Joe. “I haven’t enjoyed a meal since I left home like I enjoyed that dinner. Brother, you sure can cook sausages!”
“I like that guy,” said Joe when he and Myron were traversing the poorly-lighted street that led toward school. “He don’t have any too easy a time of it, either, Foster.”
“No, I guess coaching isn’t much fun,” Myron agreed.
“Well, he told me he liked it. Maybe he has to. He says he’s put himself clean through school that way. His father and mother are both dead and the only kin he’s got is an old aunt who lives out West somewhere. He says she’s got a right smart lot of money, but the only thing she ever does for him is send him six handkerchiefs everyChristmas. Says it’s a big help, though, because he doesn’t have to buy any. He’s a cheerful guy, all right, and the fellows hit on a swell name for him.”
“What’s that?” asked Myron.
“Why, his name is Andrew Merriman, you know, and so they call him ‘Merry Andrew.’ Cute, ain’t it? He works hard every summer, too. Last summer he was a waiter at a hotel and did some tutoring besides. He’s a hustler. Doggone it, Foster, you’ve got to hand it to a guy like that!”
“Yes,” Myron agreed. Mentally he wondered that Merriman didn’t choose a less menial task than waiting on table. It seemed rather demeaning, he thought. Joe was silent until they had reached the end of School Street and were entering the campus gate. Then:
“Say, I’d like to do something for him,” he said earnestly. “Only I suppose he wouldn’t let me.”
“Do something? What do you mean?” asked Myron.
“Well, help him along somehow. Fix it so’s he wouldn’t have to work all the time like he does. The guy’s got a great bean on him. Bet you he knows more than the Principal and the rest ofthe faculty put together. A fellow like that ought to be able to go ahead and—and develop himself. See what I mean? He’s too—too valuable to waste his time serving soup and fish in a summer hotel. If I did it it wouldn’t hurt none, but he’s different. If I had my way I’d fix him up in a couple of nice rooms with plenty of books and things and tell him to go to it.”
“But I don’t just see how you could do anything much for him,” said Myron.
“No, I guess he wouldn’t let me.”
“Maybe not. Anyway, it would take a good deal of money, wouldn’t it?”
“Yeah, I guess so. Well, I’m just talking. No harm in that, eh? I’m not going over to supper. I couldn’t eat anything more if I was paid for it. See you later, kiddo.”
For once Myron failed to resent that form of address. In fact, he scarcely noticed it. Going across to Alumni Hall, he found himself looking forward with something akin to dismay to the time when Dobbins should have left him to the undisputed possession of Number 17!
Myron had quite forgotten Paul Eldredge and the incident of the bread pellet and only remembered when he seated himself at table and caught Eldredge’s unfriendly stare. As he was late, Eldredge and the others were nearly through the rather modest repast, and smiles and whispers across the board appraised him of the unpleasant fact that he was suspected of having delayed his arrival in order to avoid encountering his table companions. Being far from the truth, this displeased him greatly and as a result he bore himself more haughtily than ever, thereby increasing the disfavour into which he had fallen at noon. Young Tinkham raised a snigger amongst his cronies by ostentatiously rolling a bit of biscuit into a pellet, but he didn’t throw it. Presently Myron was left alone, to his satisfaction, Eldredge passing him with a challenging look that would have given him cause for thought had he seen it. At the moment, however, Myron was looking into the bottom of his cup and so had no forewarning of what was to occur.
If Eldredge was in the corridor when he came out ten minutes later Myron didn’t see him. It was not until he was half-way along the walk toward Sohmer that he again recalled Eldredge’s existence. Then he heard his name spoken and turned. Two fellows came toward him, the lights of Goss Hall behind them so that it was not until they had reached him that he recognised them as Eldredge and Rogers. It was Eldredge who had called and who now spoke.
“Been looking for you ever since dinner, Foster,” said Eldredge accusingly. “Kept sort of scarce, haven’t you?”
Rogers laughed softly, nervously. Myron stiffened.
“You couldn’t have looked very hard, Eldredge. I was in my room——”
“Oh, no you weren’t!” interrupted Eldredge triumphantly. “I looked there.”
“Until half-past three—or three.”
“Or half-past two—or two,” mocked the other.
“Well, what of it?” asked Myron coldly. He knew now that Eldredge intended trouble. “What did you want me for?”
“Oh, nothing much. I just wanted to give you something.”
“I don’t want it, thanks,” replied Myron. Heturned to go on, but Eldredge stepped in front of him.
“Don’t, eh? Wait till you know what it is, Mister Smug!” Eldredge’s arm shot out. Although he had not guessed the other’s intention, Myron caught sight of the movement and instinctively stepped back. The blow, aimed at his face, landed lightly on his chest. Prompted by a rage as sudden as Eldredge’s attack, Myron’s right hand swept swiftly up from his side and caught his opponent fairly on the side of the face with open palm. The sound of the slap and Eldredge’s snarl of mingled surprise and pain came close together. Staggered by the blow, Eldredge fell back a pace. Then he sprang forward again.
“You—you——” he stammered wildly.
But Rogers, stout and unwieldy, threw himself between in a panic of entreaty. “Don’t, Paul! Not here! Some one’s coming! You’ll get the very dickens! You crazy dub, will you quit?Paul——”
“No, I won’t!” grunted Eldredge, trying to shove Rogers aside. “He can’t hit me and get away with it! I’ll show him——”
“Let him alone,” said Myron.
“No! Aw, quit, Paul! Honest, some one’s coming down the line. It won’t hurt you to waita minute, will it?” Rogers was panting now from the double exertion of being a human barrier and a suppliant. But he won, for Eldredge, almost as angry with his friend for delaying revenge as with his enemy, but utterly unable to get past him, stopped his efforts in despair.
“What do you mean, wait a minute?” he demanded, alternately glaring at Rogers and Myron.
“Well, wait until tomorrow,” panted Rogers. “You know what’ll happen if you fight here. Do it regular, Paul.”
“Tomorrow! Where’ll he be by that time?” asked Eldredge scathingly.
“Shut up!” cautioned Rogers hoarsely. “You’ll have a crowd here in a minute!” Already a group of three fellows had paused a little way off and were peering curiously through the darkness. “Listen, will you? You fellows can settle this just as well tomorrow as you can now. Fix it up for the brickyard at—at what time do you say, Foster?”
“Any time he likes!” answered Myron obligingly. Then, remembering that there were such things as recitations, he added: “Before breakfast: say a quarter to seven.”
“You won’t want any breakfast when I get through with you,” growled Eldredge.
“That all right for you, Paul?” asked Rogers. By this time he was leading the others by force of example along the walk.
“Sure.”
“Good! A quarter to seven, then, at the brickyard. Come on, Paul. So long, Foster!”
Myron made no answer as he strode on toward Sohmer. His pulses were still pounding, although he had managed to control his voice fairly well, and he was experiencing a sort of breathlessness that was novel and not altogether unpleasant. But, to be truthful, contemplation of tomorrow morning’s engagement with Eldredge at the brickyard, wherever that might be, did not fill him with unalloyed bliss. In fact, as excitement dwindled something very much like nervousness took its place. Myron was not a coward, but, as he climbed the stairs in Sohmer, he found himself wishing that he had kept his temper and his tongue under control yesterday noon!
Joe Dobbins, with both lean, sinewy hands desperately clutching his tousled hair, was bent over a book at the study table. Joe’s method of studying was almost spectacular. First he removed his coat, then his collar and tie. After that he seated himself on the edge of his chair, twined his ankles about the legs of it, tilted itforward until his elbows were on the table, got a fine, firm grip on his hair with each hand, took a long agonised breath—and plunged in! Studying was just as hard for him as it looked, and it is greatly to his credit that he succeeded at it as well as he did. Just now he looked up at Myron’s entrance. For a moment he stared vacantly. Then his hands dropped from his head, the chair thumped back into normal position and he came out of his trance.
“Hello,” he said vaguely.
“Latin?” asked Myron.
“Math,” was the sad response. Then, sensing something unusual about his room-mate, he asked: “What’s up?”
“Nothing. Why?”
“You look like some one had dropped a firecracker down your neck, or something. What’s disturbed your wonted calm? Say, how’s that? ‘Wonted calm!’ Gee, that’s going some, ain’t it? I mean, is it not?”
“Great,” said Myron absently. He went into the bedroom and methodically changed coat and vest for a grey house jacket. When he emerged Joe was still unsatisfied.
“Going to study?” asked the latter.
“Yes—no—I don’t know. I ought to.” ButMyron seated himself at the window instead of at the table and took one leg into his interlaced hands. Joe watched him solicitously. After a minute Myron asked with elaborate unconcern: “Did you ever fight any one, Dobbins?”
“Me?” Joe chuckled. “Well, I’ve been in a couple of scraps in my time. Why?”
“Just wondered. What—how do you go at it?”
“Me?” Joe leaned precariously back in his chair. “Well, I ain’t got but one rule, Foster, and that’s: Hit ’em first and often.”
“Oh! I—I suppose boxing is—quite an art.”
“Don’t know much about boxing, kiddo. Where I come from they don’t go in for rules and regulations. When you fight—you fight: and about the only thing that’s barred is kicking the other fellow in the head when he’s down! A real earnest scrap between a couple of lumber-jacks is about the nearest thing to battle, murder and sudden death that you’re likely to see outside the movies!”
“I didn’t mean that sort of fighting,” said Myron distastefully. “Fellows at—well, say, at school don’t fight like that, of course.”
“No, I don’t suppose so. I guess they stick to their fists. Anyway, they did where I went to school. We used to have some lively little scraps,too,” added Joe with a reminiscent chuckle. “I remember—But, say, what’s your trouble, Foster? Why are you so interested in fighting?”
“Oh, I was just wondering,” answered Myron evasively.
“Yeah, I know all about that. Who you been fighting?”
“No one.”
“Who you going to fight?”
“I haven’t said I was going to fight, have I? I was just asking about it. Maybe I might have to fight some time, and——”
“Sure, that’s so. You might. You can’t ever tell, can you?” Joe picked up a pencil and beat a thoughtful tattoo on the blotter for a moment. Then: “Who is he? Do I know him?” he asked.
“Know who?” faltered Myron.
“This guy that’s after you. Come on, kiddo, open up! Come across! Let’s hear the story.”
So finally Myron told the whole thing, secretly very glad to do it, and Joe listened silently, save for an occasional grunt. When Myron had finished Joe asked: “So that’s it, eh? Tomorrow morning at a quarter to seven at the brickyard. Where’s this brickyard located?”
“I don’t know. I must ask some one.”
“Yeah. Now tell me this, kid—I mean Foster: What do you know about fighting?”
“Not much,” owned Myron ruefully. “I saw a couple of fellows at high school fight once, but that’s about all.”
“Never fought yourself?”
Myron shook his head almost apologetically. “No, I never had occasion to.”
Joe snorted. “You mean you never had a chance to find an occasion,” he said derisively. “You were kept tied up to the grand piano in the drawing-room, I guess. Think of a husky guy like you getting to be seventeen years old and never having any fun at all! Gee, it’s criminal! Your folks have got a lot to answer for, Foster, believe me! Here, stand up here and put your fists up and show me what you know—or don’t know.”
Myron obeyed and faced the other awkwardly. Joe groaned.
“Gee, ain’t you the poor fish? Stick that foot out so you can move about. That’s it. Now I’m going to tap you on the shoulder, the left shoulder. Don’t let me!” But Myron did let him, although he thrashed both his arms about fearsomely. “Rotten! Watch me, not my hands. Now look out for your face!”
A minute later Joe dropped his hands, shook his head and leaned dejectedly against a corner of the table. “It’s no use, kiddo, it’s no use! You’ll be the lamb going to the slaughter tomorrow. Ain’t any one ever taken the least interest in your education? What are you going to do when that Eldredge guy comes at you?”
Myron smiled wanly. “I guess I’ll just have to do the best I can,” he said. “Maybe he isn’t much better than I am.”
“Don’t kid yourself. When a guy picks a quarrel the way he did it means he knows a bit. Still, at that——” Joe stopped and stared thoughtfully at the wall. Then: “What’s his full name?” he asked.
“Paul Eldredge is all I know of it.”
“That’ll do. I’ll be back in a few minutes.” Joe picked up his cap and made for the door. “Nothing like knowing what you’re up against,” he said. “Sit tight, Brother, and leave this to me. If I was you I’d do a bit of studying, eh?”
Myron followed the advice. Just at first it was hard to get his mind on lessons, for his thoughts kept recurring to the coming encounter and when they did he squirmed uneasily in his chair and felt a kind of tingling sensation at the end of his spine. On the football field Myron had oftentaken blows and given them in the excitement of the game. He had had some hard knocks and had seen plenty of rough playing. He couldn’t remember ever having been afraid of an opponent, although he had more than once entered a contest with the knowledge that the enemy was “laying for him.” But, somehow, this was different. What resentment he had felt against Paul Eldredge had passed, and so even the spur of anger was lacking. He would have to stand up there tomorrow morning and be knocked around at Eldredge’s pleasure, it seemed, for no very good reason that he could think of. It was rather silly, when you came to consider it calmly. Eldredge had been rude to him, he had been rude to Eldredge, Eldredge had struck him, he had struck Eldredge. Now when things were nicely evened up he must take a licking! Well, he supposed there was no way out of it short of acting like a coward. He would have to take what was coming to him, getting off as easily as he could, and try to like it! Well, he had taken punishment before and could again. Having reached that conclusion, he managed to get his thoughts back to his studies and was going very well when Joe returned.
“Well, I’ve got his number,” announced Joe, discarding his cap and dropping into a chair. “He’s a scrapper. He’s had three or four mix-ups since he has been here, usually, as near as I can make out, with fellows who didn’t know much fighting. He’s got a quick temper and is ugly when he’s started. He’s a second class fellow and plays hockey and baseball. Had a fuss with the baseball coach last spring and was laid off for awhile. Apologised and got back again finally. I didn’t hear any one say he was liked much. The main thing, though, is that he can scrap. Keith says he’s quite a foxy youth with his fists; says he thinks he’s taken lessons. So now we know where we are, eh?”
“Yes, it seems so,” answered Myron. “Well, there’s no use talking about it, is there? Did you find out where this brickyard is?”
“Yeah, it’s just across the street at the farside of the campus, back from the road a bit. I’ve been thinking, Foster. There’s no sense in you going up against a fellow who knows how to fight, is there?”
“No, but it doesn’t seem to be a question of sense,” replied Myron, smiling.
“What I mean is, it isn’t a fair proposition for a chap who can’t even keep his guard up to try to fight a guy who knows all the ropes. Might as well expect one of Merriman’s puppies to fight a bull-dog. That’s so, ain’t it?”
“Well, it isn’t quite that bad,” said Myron. “At least, I hope not!”
“Mighty near. So here’s my plan, kiddo. You stay right in your downy couch tomorrow morning and I’ll see this guy Eldredge myself.”
“What?”
“Sure! Why not? He wants a scrap, don’t he? Well, he wouldn’t get any if you were to go. It wouldn’t be worth his trouble getting out of bed. But me, I can show him a real good time, likely. I don’t say I can lick him, for they tell me he’s a right shifty guy and has some punch, but I can keep him interested until he’s ready to call it a day. Besides, I ain’t had a real good scrap since last winter and I’m getting soft. So that’s what we’ll do, eh?”
Myron laughed. Then, perplexedly, he asked: “You aren’t in earnest, Dobbins?”
“Sure, I’m in earnest? What’s the joke?”
“I guess it would be on Eldredge,” chuckled Myron.
“That’s so.” Joe smiled too. “He will be a bit surprised, won’t he? Maybe he will be peeved, too. I wouldn’t wonder. Well, that’s nothing in our young lives, eh? We’re doing the best we can for him.”
“But—but do you really think I’d agree to that?” asked Myron. “You’re joking, of course!”
“What do you mean, joking?” demanded the other indignantly. “And why wouldn’t you agree? Ain’t it the sensible thing to do?”
“Maybe, but I can’t do it, of course, Dobbins. You must see that. Why, hang it, if I challenge another fellow to fight I don’t expect him to send a substitute!”
“What you expect don’t cut any ice, kiddo. If the guy you challenge can’t fight a little bit he’s a plain idiot to let you whang him around, ain’t he? And if he knows another guy who doesn’t mind taking his place why ain’t it all right and fair for him to send him along? Tell me those!”
“Why, because—because it isn’t!” answered Myron impatiently. “Eldredge hasn’t anythingagainst you. His quarrel is with me. What would he say about me if I stayed away and let you go instead?”
“Him? What could he say? I’ll tell him you’re no scrapper. That’ll fix that in his mind, won’t it? Mind you, Foster, I ain’t saying he’s going to be pleased at running up against a guy who knows a thing or two about the game, but it don’t seem to me that we need to worry about whether he’s pleased or not. He wants a scrap and we’re giving him one. That’s enough, ain’t it?”
“It’s the craziest thing I ever heard of,” said Myron. “Of course, I’m awfully much obliged, Dobbins. I appreciate it, honest. I don’t know why you should offer to do it, either. But it’s absolutely out of the question. So let’s not talk about it any more.”
Joe frowned, opened his mouth, closed it again without speaking and fell to studying his hands. After a moment Myron asked: “What do I do when I get there, Dobbins? Do we shake hands or—or just start in?”
“Start in,” answered the other absently. “Look here, Foster,” he continued earnestly, “you’re going to act like a plumb fool. Why, that guy’ll paste you all over your face and leave you looking like a raw beefsteak! Then faculty’llwant to know what you’ve been doing and there’ll be all sorts of trouble on tap. What you going to do when he begins lamming you?”
Myron shrugged. “Stand him off the best way I can. Lamm him back if I can. Maybe I’ll get on to the game after awhile. I’m going to try. I thought maybe you could show me a few things tonight, just so’s I wouldn’t look too green tomorrow. It isn’t late, is it?”
“No, it isn’t late.” Joe brightened perceptibly for an instant, but then his face fell again and he shook his head. “It wouldn’t be any use, kiddo. You’d forget it all in the morning. I guess if you won’t do like I said the best thing’ll be to let him knock you down as soon as possible. When you’re down, stay down. If he asks have you had enough, you tell him yes. Then you can shake hands and get through without getting all beat up.”
“Is that what you’d do?” asked Myron sharply.
“Me? Well, I—I don’t know as I would, just.”
“Then why should you think I’d do it? Who told you I was a coward? I can’t fight, and I know it, but I don’t intend to lie down!”
“Whoa, Bill! I ain’t said you were a coward. I know better, of course. If you were a coward you’d try to squirm out of meeting the fellow, wouldn’t you? All right, have it your own way,kiddo. Only don’t worry about it, see? You get a good sleep and leave tomorrow look after itself.”
“Thanks. I’m going to do that, Dobbins. Guess I’ll turn in now and dream I’m Jess Willard or one of those guys—fellows. Are you going to study some more?”
Joe nodded. “Yeah, I’m going to study some. Good night.”
“Good night,” answered Myron. A few minutes later he spoke again from the bedroom. “I say, Dobbins!”
“Yeah?”
“I’m awfully much obliged. You’ve been mighty kind, you know.”
“That’s all right, kiddo,” growled Dobbins. “Go to sleep.”
Whether Myron dreamed that he was a prizefighter, or dreamed at all, he didn’t remember when he awoke. That he had slept restfully, however, he realised the instant he was in possession of his faculties. He told himself that he felt fine. And when, a second later, he remembered the engagement at the brickyard the empty feeling at the pit of his stomach lasted but a moment. He turned his head and glanced at the clock on top of his dresser. Then he stared at it. It said twenty-eight minutes after six! Itwasn’t like that clock to go wrong. It had been all right last evening when he had wound it, too. Suppose it was still right! Suppose he had overslept! He looked quickly at Joe’s bed. It was empty. Great Scott! He’d have to hurry if he was to get to that brickyard in seventeen minutes! He started to throw the covers aside, but he didn’t. He couldn’t! He couldn’t move his arm! Why, he couldn’t move any part of him except his head! Something awful had happened to him! Fright gripped him and in a panic he strove to get command of his limbs. Horrible thoughts of paralysis came to him. The bed creaked, but he remained flat on his back! And then it dawned on him that the reason he couldn’t move was because he was tied down!
For a moment he was so relieved to discover that the fault was not with him that he didn’t realise his situation. It was only when he remembered the time again that he understood. This was Joe Dobbins’ doing! Joe had tied him down to his bed, though how he had done it without awakening him Myron couldn’t imagine, and had himself gone to meet Eldredge! Surprise gave way to anger and mortification. What would Eldredge think of him? All Joe’s explanations would fail to convince Eldredge that Myron hadnot purposely stayed away. Of all the crazy, meddlesome fools in the world, Dobbins was the craziest! Wait until he found him! Wait until he told him what he thought of him! Wait——
But just then Myron realised that waiting was the one thing he couldn’t afford. The clock had ticked off two minutes of the precious time remaining to him and the long hand was moving past the half-hour already. He studied his predicament. Joe had, it appeared, used his own sheets and quilt and, probably, other things as well, and Myron was as securely fastened down as Gulliver by the Lilliputians! He could move each leg about an inch and each arm the same. By arching his back he could lift his body just off the bed: something, possibly a sheet, crossed his chest and was tied fast to the side rails. He squirmed until he was exhausted, and the only apparent result was to give himself the fraction of an inch more freedom. He subsided, panting, and his anger found room for grudging admiration of Joe’s work. How that idiot had managed to swathe and bind him as he had done without waking him up was both a marvel and a mystery!
“Gee,” muttered Myron, “I knew I was a sound sleeper, but——”
Words failed him. Presently, despairing ofsuccess, he tried to free his right hand. Something that felt like a strap—he discovered afterwards that it was one of his neckties—was wound about the wrist, and his efforts were of no avail. The other hand was quite as securely tied. Tugging his feet against similar bonds was equally unprofitable. When the hands of the clock on the dresser indicated seventeen minutes to seven he gave up and tried to find consolation in arranging the eloquent remarks he meant to deliver to Joe Dobbins when that offensive youth returned.
Meanwhile, history was in the making on the trampled field of battle.
At a few minutes before the half-hour after six, a large, wide-shouldered youth attired in a pair of old trousers, a faded brown sweater that lacked part of one sleeve and a cloth cap of a violent green-and-brown plaid might have been seen ambling leisurely across the campus in the direction of the West Gate. In fact, he was seen, for from an open window on the front of Leonard Hall a pyjama-clad boy thrust his head forth and hailed softly.
“Hi, Joe! Joe Dobbins!” he called.
Joe paused and searched the front of the building until a spot of pale lavender against the expanseof sunlit brick supplied the clue. Then: “Hello, Keith,” he answered. “Can’t you sleep?”
Leighton Keith chuckled. “Where are you going?” he asked.
“Just for a stroll,” replied Joe carelessly.
“Wait a minute and I’ll come along.”
Joe shook his head. “Got a date, Keith, with a guy named Eldredge.”
Keith nodded and waved, but, after Joe had passed from sight around the corner of the building, he pursed his lips thoughtfully and stared out into the early morning world. Gradually a smile curved his mouth. “Paul Eldredge,” he murmured. “Guess we’ll look into this.” He donned a dressing-gown and passed into the corridor and along it until he reached a window that overlooked Linden Street. Joe was just sauntering through the gate, hands in pockets, nonchalance expressed in every motion. But Keith noted with satisfaction that he turned to the right into Apple Street and presently crossed that thoroughfare and disappeared into the lane that led toward the abandoned brickyard. Keith whistled expressively if subduedly and went quickly back to his room and aroused Harry Cater by the simple method of pulling the clothes from him. “Katie,”as he was called, groaned, clutched ineffectually for the bedding and opened one eye.
“Wake up, Katie,” said Keith. “Joe Dobbins has a scrap on with Eldredge at the brickyard. Come on!”
“Howjuno?” muttered Katie.
“He just told me.” That was near enough the truth, Keith considered. Katie opened the other eye, stared around the room and slung one foot over the edge of the bed. “All right,” he said briskly. “Wait till I get a shower and I’ll be with you.”
“Shower? Nothing doing!” Keith was piling rapidly into his clothes. “There isn’t time. This is something a little bit choice, old man, and we don’t want to miss it. Get a move on!”
Joe made his leisurely way along the lane, his feet rustling the leaves that littered the grassy path. There had been a frost during the night and in shaded places it still glistened. When he had left the lane and was making his way between the old tumbledown shed with its piles of crumbling bricks and one of the clay pits he saw that there was a skim of ice on the water below him. It was a morning that induced a fine feeling of well-being, that made the blood course quickly and would have put a song on Joe’s lips had he been able to sing a note. As it was, he whistled instead.
Ahead of him was a smallish shed, perhaps at one time the office. Some rusted barrows and pieces of machinery lay about it. As it presented the only place of concealment in sight, Joe concluded that it was the place of appointment. Eldredge, however, had not arrived. Joe made sure of that by looking on all sides of the building and peering into the interior through a panelesswindow. So he seated himself in the sunlight and philosophically waited.
Some ten minutes passed and then he heard footsteps and presently around the corner appeared Paul Eldredge and Sam Rogers. Joe frowned. Eldredge shouldn’t have brought a second fellow without telling Myron of his intention. The newcomers stopped in surprise when they saw Joe, and after an instant Eldredge said: “Hello! Have you seen—Is Foster here?”
“Hello,” replied Joe. “Foster? No, he isn’t coming.”
“Isn’t coming!” exclaimed Eldredge. Then he laughed. “What do you know about that? What did I tell you, Sam?”
Rogers nodded. “I know. You said he wouldn’t.”
“Fact is,” said Joe, “he can’t.”
“Can’t, eh? I suppose he’s sick,” sneered Eldredge.
Joe shook his head gently and pulled himself to his feet. “No, he ain’t sick, he’s—he’s confined to his bed.” He chuckled, much to the mystification of the others. Eldredge scowled.
“What is this, a silly joke?” he demanded peevishly.
“No, oh, no, it ain’t any joke,” answered Joegravely. “It’s this way, Eldredge. Foster’s no scrapper. Doesn’t know the first thing about it. Of course you didn’t know that when you arranged this party. You wanted a nice little fight. Foster couldn’t give it to you. Why, he doesn’t know how to even block. You wouldn’t have had any sport at all. It would have been all over in a wag of a duck’s tail. I told him that, but he wouldn’t see it. I said: ‘This guy Eldredge wants a scrap, kiddo. He doesn’t want to get up at that time of day just to see you topple over every time he reaches out. Give him a chance,’ I said. ‘You stay in bed and I’ll take the job off your hands.’ Course, I’m no professional, Eldredge, but I know enough to give you a bit of fun. But Foster wouldn’t see it. Insisted that he had to come himself.”
“Say, for the love of Mike,” broke in Eldredge, “are you crazy?”
“Me? No, I don’t believe so,” answered Joe mildly. “Anyway, I couldn’t get him to look at it right, and so this morning I just woke up a bit early and tied him up in bed.” He chuckled. “I’ll bet he’s spouting blue murder right now!”
“That’s a likely yarn!” sneered Eldredge. “Tied up in bed! Yes, he is—not! He got you to come and tell that story to save his face!”
“Well, I sort of came to save his face,” answered Joe genially, “but not just the way you mean: and he didn’t have anything to do with it. He’s tied right down to his bed this minute.”
“If he is,” said Rogers, “he helped do it.”
“No.” Joe shook his head patiently. “He was asleep. I’d like you guys to believe that. It always sort of disgruntles me when folks don’t believe what I tell ’em, and I’m likely to get real mad.”
Rogers blinked. “Well—well, then there’s nothing doing, Paul,” he said very mildly.
“Nothing doing?” echoed Joe in surprise. “What do you mean, nothing doing? Ain’t I here? Sure, there’s something doing. Him and me—I mean he and I are going to have a real good time.”
“We are not,” replied Eldredge disgustedly. “It’s the plainest sort of a frame-up, Sam. I knew all along Foster didn’t have any sand. I told you he’d duck.”
“Say, you must have got me wrong,” said Joe earnestly. “Foster wanted to come, but I wouldn’t let him. It wasn’t fair to him or you, kiddo. Don’t you see? He’d have got all messed up and you’d have been downright disappointed.That’s why I took it over. You and me are about of a size and weight and I’ll bet we can have a right good scrap.”
“I don’t care to fight you,” said Eldredge disdainfully. “Why should I? I don’t even know you!”
“Well, I don’t know you, either,” replied Joe calmly. “So we’re all-square there, eh? Listen, Brother: if you’re holding back on my account, don’t do it. I don’t mind a scrap. Fact is, I’d be mighty disappointed if I didn’t have it, after coming away over here like this. And so would you, of course. You’re like me; get sort of low-spirited if you don’t have a little set-to now and then. Ain’t that right?”
Eldredge was viewing Joe in mingled astonishment and uneasiness. This big, raw-boned chap didn’t look good to him as an opponent. His arms were discouragingly long and the shoulders hinted at a muscular development quite unusual. Also, there was a quiet gleam in the greenish-grey eyes that made Eldredge feel a bit creepy along his spine. He laughed nervously.
“Don’t be a chump,” he begged. “Of course I’m not going to fight you. I had a row with Foster, but if you say he doesn’t know how tofight, why, all right. We’ll call it off. I don’t want to fight any fellow that’s no match for me——”
“That’s just what I told him,” said Joe delightedly. “I said, ‘That guy’s going to be tickled to death when I show up instead of you.’”
“Come on,” said Rogers, tugging at his friend’s sleeve.
“Of course,” went on Eldredge, “if Foster wants to go on with it later, I’m ready for him, but—but as far as I’m concerned I’m willing to call quits.”
“Atta boy!” said Joe approvingly. “Well, now that’s settled and you and me can go ahead.” Joe began to peel off his sweater. Eldredge frowned and shot an anxious look at Rogers.
“I’ve told you I wouldn’t fight you,” he said, “and I won’t.”
“Why not?” demanded Joe. “Ain’t I good enough for you? Trying to insult me, eh?” he scowled darkly. “Is that it?”
“Of course not! I haven’t any row with you. Besides, it’s nearly time for chapel and I don’t intend to get in wrong at the Office just to please you!”
“That don’t go, kiddo. I’ve offered to fight youand you’ve insulted me by refusing. That’s enough. Now you pull that coat off and stand up here.”
“You’re crazy! I won’t be forced into a fight like this. You haven’t any right to——”
Joe gave a howl. “Haven’t any rights, haven’t I? We’ll see. No guy can tell me I haven’t any rights and not fight! Now then, come on!”
“I said you hadn’t any right to make me fight,” protested Eldredge. “You’re just——”
“I heard you!” answered Joe ominously. “Don’t repeat it! It’s something no guy can say to me and not answer for! By jiminy, you’ve got a cheek! No rights, eh? Ain’t I a free-born American citizen?” Joe slung his sweater aside, slipped his suspenders down and knotted them about his waist and advanced on the embarrassed enemy. “What about the Declaration of Independence?” he demanded wrathfully.
“You know well enough what I mean,” declared Eldredge somewhat shrilly. “I refuse to fight you! I haven’t——”
“Insulted again!” roared Joe fearsomely. “Put up your fists!”
Eldredge was backing away toward the corner of the shed, Rogers a good two yards in the lead. “I won’t! I’ve told you! You can’t bully meinto fighting when—when I’ve got nothing to fight about!”
“Call me a bully now, do you?” growled Joe in ominous calm. He cast an outraged look to the heavens. “Brother, you’ve gone the limit. Look out for yourself!” He swung his right arm up and out. The blow, had it connected, would have lifted Eldredge off his feet and deposited him yards away. But it was woefully short, suggesting that Joe was a poor judge of distance. Nevertheless it so alarmed Eldredge that he trod on his friend’s toes in his hurried retreat, and a wail of pain and protest arose from Rogers, a wail that, mingling with peals of laughter that seemed to come from overhead, made a weird confusion of sound. The group on the ground abruptly paused in their careers and bewilderedly searched the sky for that Jovian laughter. They hadn’t far to seek. Atop the shed roof, their convulsed countenances showing above the peak, were stretched Leighton Keith and Harry Cater.
Joe, after a surprised recognition, grinned and unknotted his suspenders. Eldredge grew red where he had been inclined to pallor and looked unutterably foolish. Rogers smiled in a sickly fashion and dug embarrassed hands into hispockets. On the roof the unsuspected guests conquered their laughter, and Keith said to Joe: “Sorry if we—spoiled your—fun—Dobbins, but we couldn’t—hold in any longer!”
“Well, I didn’t know I was amusing an audience,” replied Joe, “but it don’t matter.” He picked up his sweater as Keith and Cater slid to the edge and dropped over. “Guess we’ll have to postpone this, Eldredge,” he continued. “Too many folks around, eh? I’ll fix another date with you.”
Katie chuckled. “I fancy Eldredge is satisfied,” he said. “Eh, Paul?”
Eldredge glowered. “I didn’t have any quarrel with him,” he muttered. “He—he’s crazy!”
Katie and Keith seemed to find this most amusing, but after a moment of laughter Keith recovered his gravity and said: “I guess you can be trusted to keep this business quiet, Eldredge. How about you, Rogers?” Rogers nodded, his countenance expressing a relief equal to Eldredge’s. “Good. I know Dobbins won’t talk, and neither will we. So there’s no reason why the thing should get out. In a way, it’s a pity to keep it to ourselves, for the fellows would certainly enjoy it, but some jokes are too good to be told.If you want to lead a happy life hereafter, Eldredge, you’d better keep mum! And, by the way, if I ever hear of you scrapping any more I’ll be tempted to tell what happened this morning. You’re much too blood-thirsty, Eldredge, you really are. Restrain yourself, my boy, restrain yourself.” Eldredge muttered something as he moved away. “What was that?” asked Keith sharply. “Did I hear a bad word?”
“No,” replied Eldredge aggrievedly, “you didn’t. I said, ‘All right.’”
“Hm: I’ll try to believe you: but you’d better beat it before I begin to have doubts!”
Rogers had already melted around the corner of the shed and Eldredge, pausing only long enough to send a last vindictive glance at Joe, followed. Alone, the three looked at each other in amused silence. Then Katie helped Joe into his sweater and together they turned toward school. It was only when the forms of Eldredge and Rogers were seen hurrying into the lane that Keith’s risibilities again got the better of him and he began to chuckle. Whereupon Joe and Katie joined.
It was getting dangerously close to chapel time when Myron, smouldering with anger, heard the study door open and the heavy tread of Joe approaching.When the latter appeared Myron was more than ready for him.
“You—you——” he stammered, “you big—big——”
It was maddening! His nicely arranged flow of invective, his long list of insulting adjectives were gone! He couldn’t get his tongue around a single word that satisfied his requirements. All he could do was glare and sputter and strain at his bonds. And Joe stood at the foot of the bed and viewed him mildly and patiently.
“You let me loose!” cried Myron. “You untie me this minute! You’ll see what’ll happen to you, you big—bigboob!” Myron groaned at the utter inadequacy of that appellation and gave up the attempt to do justice to his feelings. Joe blinked.
“Got to have your promise not to start any ructions first,” he announced. “It’s pretty near chapel time, Foster, and if you try scrapping with me you’ll be late. So’ll I. Better dress quietly and let me explain things.”
“I’m going to punch your ugly face!” fumed Myron. “I don’t care a hang who’s late to what! You can’t spring your silly tricks on me like this, Dobbins! You can’t——”
“Then I’ll have to let you stay where you are,” said Joe regretfully.
“You let me up!”