CHAPTER IVA BOY IN A WHEEL CHAIR
To reach the assembly hall, which occupied the entire first floor rear section of East Hall, just as the dining hall occupied the same location on the other side, Clif had to go the length of Middle Hall, pass into the wider corridor of the newer building beyond, turn left and follow the main corridor to the staircase. East Hall, save for a dozen rooms on the third floor, was devoted principally to the use of the Junior School, composed of boys between the ages of eleven and fourteen. Mr. Clendenin, known as “Wim” because of his invariable custom of signing himself “Wm. Clendenin,” was at the head. The Juniors had their own parlor, recreation room, library, reading room, game room and office on the ground floor. They ate, however, in the dining hall in West and shared the class rooms in Middle with the older students. Middle, once containing all there was of the school, had long since been remodeled into class rooms only.
Doctor Wyndham, the Principal, occupied a suite of three rooms and bath on the second floor of East Hall. Other suites, smaller, similar to Mr. McKnight’s, weresituate in each of the newer buildings, and accommodated fourteen faculty members.
Clif descended the stairway to the first floor corridor. At the far end the vicinity of the assembly hall entrance was crowded with boys who, waiting outside until the last moment, had now begun to crowd through the wide doorway. Clif concluded that he was the last one to arrive, but he wasn’t, since, as he passed the open door of a room beyond Mr. Clendenin’s office, he was obliged to step quickly aside to avoid collision with a wheel chair which, emerging noiselessly on rubber tires, had given him no warning. The chair was occupied by a boy a year or so Clif’s senior. A dark plaid rug covered the lower part of his body. On a shelf stretched between the chair arms lay a book and a fountain pen. The occupant of the chair propelled it by the wheels, turning it deftly to avoid Clif and directing it along the corridor toward assembly hall. He smiled an apology as he did so. Noting that he was obliged to lean forward slightly to grasp the wheels, or, rather, a rim that projected from them for the purpose of propulsion, Clif said impulsively:
“Let me be chauffeur, won’t you?”
The boy in the chair looked back and smiled again. “Why, thanks. I’m just going to the assembly hall, and it really isn’t hard, but if you don’t mind giving me a shove—”
“Glad to,” said Clif heartily.
By the time they had reached the door the throng had thinned to a few embarrassed, giggling juniors,and, at the other’s request, Clif wheeled the chair just inside the portal. Doctor Wyndham was already on the platform and the fellows were clapping loudly. The boy in the chair smiled his thanks and Clif tiptoed across to Tom, who had saved a seat for him in the rear row.
“Who’s that fellow?” asked Tom in whispers.
“I don’t know. I met him in the corridor.” Then, as the applause ceased, Clif gave his attention to the speaker. Doctor Wyndham was a tall, erect man of sixty who looked rather more like a successful business executive than a school principal. His hair, of which he had managed to retain a goodly amount, was scarcely more than grizzled, and his healthily tanned skin spoke of fine physical condition. He was extremely good looking and very distinguished appearing, and the School was proud of him. That he was the business man as well as the pedagogue was proved by the institution of which he was the head and owner. In the brief space of twenty-four years he had built it up from nothing to one of the finest and best-known preparatory schools of the east. The Doctor had been a widower for many years and was without children. It was believed that, at his death, the school would go to Mr. Wyatt, his nephew.
He had a wonderfully clear and resonant voice and enunciated each word so distinctly that, listening, one was likely to lose the matter of his discourse in the enjoyment of his delivery. Something of that sort occurred to Clif, for when the frequent patter of applausebroke in on the pleasant flow he usually discovered that he didn’t know what the speaker had just said. Then, too, the boy in the wheel chair interested Clif. He stole frequent glances across and wondered a good deal about him. He looked remarkably healthy, with a good deal of color in his cheeks and plenty of sparkle in his dark eyes. His hair was dark, too, almost black, it seemed, and was brushed straight back from a high forehead which, aided by a straight nose and a slightly pointed chin, made Clif think of the Flaxman profiles of ancient Greek heroes. A handsome fellow, Clif decided, and attractive. He had frequently heard the word magnetic used in reference to persons, but this was the first time it had ever occurred to him as appropriate. He concluded that he would rather like to know the boy in the chair.
The Principal’s talk was a good deal like a dozen or more other talks he had made on similar occasions. There was a welcome to the new students, a greeting to the old ones, much sensible advice on many subjects, a reference to athletics—and especially football, a touch of humor here and there and, at the last, an appeal to his hearers for a conscientious performance of their duties to themselves, their parents and the School. Outside, Clif hazarded the opinion that it had been a mighty fine talk, hoping that Tom wouldn’t call on him to prove it by quotations. Tom said: “Yes, but I didn’t get much of it. Let’s go over to the big city and buy some peanuts or something, Bingham. I’m starved!”
“Will they let us?”
“Why not? There’s no study hour to-night. Anyway, we won’t be gone more than ten minutes.”
There was a light behind the windows of Number 17 West as they passed the courtyard, and Clif pictured Walter Harrison Treat up there rearranging his shoes for the fourth time and chuckled. Kemble asked what the joke was and Clif explained. Kemble declared that Treat must be a pill, adding: “I wish you and I had got together, Bingham. I’m with a Second Class fellow named Desmond, Billy Desmond. Not a bad sort, but a bit snifty because he’s been around here a couple of years.”
“I guess Treat feels sort of superior for the same reason,” mused Clif.
“I don’t want to be harsh with Desmond, because he’s a First Team man; plays tackle, I think; and he might be useful. I say, you’re going out for practice to-morrow, aren’t you?”
“Yes. I haven’t heard anything about it, but I suppose they want candidates.”
“Of course they do. Did you bring togs?”
“Some old ones. I’ll get others if—it’s worth while.”
“Oh, you’ll get to play somewhere. Desmond says there’s a lot of rivalry amongst the class teams. And then there’s the scrub, too.”
“I’ll be lucky to make that, I guess. The fellows here look awfully big and husky, Kemble.”
“Yes, there’s a guy at my table who must be nineteenif he’s a day, and if he doesn’t top six feet I’ll eat my hat! Say, I wonder if we can’t fix it to get together in dining hall. Suppose they’ll let us? I’ll find out to-morrow. There’s a fruit store over there, and I think I smell peanuts!”
Going back, Kemble explained, while he cracked peanuts steadily, that he hadn’t been able to do very well at supper. “Mental exhaustion, you know. I was all in when Wyatt let me go. I ought to hate that guy, but I don’t seem to. He surely handed me some hot ones, but I guess I deserved them. What’s the good of knowing so blamed much about the queers who wrote books a couple of hundred years ago? Heck, it’s all I can do to half keep track of the guys who are doing it now! Wyatt asked me to tell him what I knew about Scott, and I said he was a mighty clever shortstop, but I didn’t know his batting average. But, gosh, he wasn’t talking baseball, he was talking about the fellow who wrote ‘Ivanhoe’!”
“I saw you from my window when you were making some of those brilliant sallies,” laughed Clif, “and you certainly did look unhappy, Kemble!”
“I was! Say, drop the ‘Kemble,’ will you? I’m generally called Tom.”
“I like Tom better. My name’s Clif, short for Clifton.”
“I know. I heard your father call you that. That’s a real classy name.”
Clif reflected that he hadn’t thought of his father for a long while, and felt sort of guilty.
“Not much style to Thomas,” the other was continuing. “My middle name’s Ackerman. That was my mother’s before she married. When I was a kid I used to write my name T. Ackerman Kemble, but the fellows got on to it and called me Tackerman, and then Tak. Mother used to call me Tommy, but I had to lick a chap in school for doing it. It was all right from her, but I couldn’t stand for it generally.”
“Is your mother—I mean—”
“Yes, she died about six years ago. A man named Winslow is my guardian. Mother didn’t have any near relatives and this guy was her lawyer and so she stung me with him. He’s sort of a pill. I say, pipe the faculty chap on the steps!”
Against the light of West Hall entrance a tall figure was darkly silhouetted as they came up the drive.
“Faculty chaps are bad luck for me,” confided Tom; “like black cats!” Clif laughed uneasily. Then they were at the steps and he said “Good evening, sir,” as pleasantly as he knew how.
“Good evening,” was the response. “Where have you boys been?”
“Just looking around, sir,” answered Tom promptly.
“What have you there?” The man indicated Tom’s right hand. Tom looked and replied affably: “A peanut, sir.”
“Hm. What’s your name?”
“Kemble, sir.”
“And yours?”
“Bingham, sir.”
“Well, Kemble and Bingham, it’s contrary to rules to go off the grounds after six o’clock. You didn’t, I presume, pick that peanut off any of the trees here.”
“Oh, no, sir,” answered Tom. “I rather think they grow on vines.”
“Your knowledge of agriculture is impressive.” Tom thought the instructor’s features relaxed a trifle, but since they were in shadow he couldn’t be certain. “You boys had better report to Mr. Frost in the morning,” he went on. “Tell him Mr. Waltman sent you; and why.”
“Yes, sir,” said Tom politely. Then, as Mr. Waltman ascended the steps and disappeared inside the Hall, he added sadly: “Heck! This is a fine start, isn’t it? Something tells me, Clif, that I’m not going to like this place!”
Clif went up to Number 34 with Tom and met the “snifty” roommate and liked him a lot. Billy Desmond was a large, good-hearted and generally smiling fellow of seventeen. Perhaps he was rather inclined just at first to use a patronizing tone with Tom and Clif, but he got over it before many days had passed and was voted a good scout by both of them. To-night he joked them a lot about their mishap and drew lugubrious pictures of the Assistant to the Principal, Mr. Frost, and described a variety of dire results any one of which might befall them. Even though he discounted Billy’s predictions Tom was characteristically pessimistic and frequently reiterated his conviction that he wasn’t going to be happy at Wyndham.
Although on the third floor and on the opposite side of the building from Clif’s room, Number 34 was a replica of it. The only noticeable difference was in the amount of floor space. Number 34 seemed smaller. But Clif soon saw that this was due to a leather couch which, at present occupied by Billy, thrust out from the end of the study table like a sore thumb. It had a history, that couch. Billy had bought it last term from a departing owner who, in turn, had purchased it three years before from some one else. Beyond that point it could not be traced, but it looked every day of twenty years! Its brown leather covering was missing in many places and torn in others, and wherever this was the case the stuffing of tow protruded pathetically. It had been tufted at one time, but the buttons had long since disappeared. While it probably retained the same number of springs with which it had started, most of them had ceased functioning. A few had not, however, and it was those few which made it extremely difficult for the stranger to occupy the couch with any degree of comfort. They stuck up at unexpected places and, in collusion with the slippery surface of the well-worn leather, had deposited many an unwary visitor on the floor. But Billy was very fond of that relic, very proud of it, and was still convinced that when he had exchanged three dollars and twenty-five cents for it he had consummated a master stroke of finance. With the aid of two faded, lumpy pillows—thrown in with the couch for good measure—he occupied a sort of trough down the center of the antiquity and, with thedesk light conveniently near, could read or study at ease. Just now, of course, he was doing neither.
“You fellows want to see ‘Cocky’ in the morning and take your physical exams. If you don’t you can’t turn out for practice. You play football, too, I suppose, Bingham?” Billy gave Clif an appraising look that held approval. Clif was tall for his sixteen years and, although lacking weight, didn’t look stringy. Of course, Billy reflected, he wasn’t First Team material yet, but he looked promising. He seemed alert and might be fast. Billy liked his clean-cut features, and the way his face lighted when he smiled. Rather the sort of fellow, he imagined, who would get along fast and make a name for himself at Wyndham.
“You won’t get much more than a lot of hard work this year,” Billy continued when Clif had replied affirmatively. He was addressing them both, however. “But you’ll be mighty glad next year that you had it. That is, you will if you take your medicine and don’t quit because you can’t be bloomin’ heroes the first thing! That’s going to be your trouble, likely, Tom. You’ll go off half-cocked some day and resign because the coach doesn’t pat you on the back.”
“How do you get that way?” asked Tom indignantly. “Don’t you suppose they play football anywhere but here? I’ve played since I was twelve, and I’ve never quit yet, and I’ve had some raw deals, too!”
Billy laughed. “You’re going to be a lot of fun for me this year, Tom,” he said. “You’ve got quite a lot of new stuff, son.”
“Huh!” Tom regarded his roommate doubtfully. Then he grinned. “It’s going to be fifty-fifty, I guess. I’m not the only funny one in this room.”
“Good lad,” approved Billy.
They talked football for a while and Billy told about last year and how Wolcott had turned the tables in the last quarter of the big game and turned a Wyndham victory into a devastating defeat. “We had them all the way until the tag end of that period. We’d scored in the first and second, and booted a goal each time. It was all over but the shouting, you might have thought, for 14 to 3—they’d snitched a field-goal in the third—was good enough for any one, and all we had to do was hold them for the rest of the game. Then they put this chap Grosfawk in at end. No one had ever heard of him before around here. Our scouts didn’t even remember his name. They had the ball down on their thirty, and there was less than five minutes of the game left. Their inside half, Cummins, faked a kick and tossed to this Grosfawk chap, who had managed to sneak pretty well across the field. It wasn’t an awfully long throw, and he made it slow and sure. Grosfawk was just about even with the scrimmage line when he caught and when we’d nailed him he was three yards from our goal-line. He’d run about sixty-five yards, and there wasn’t a fellow on our team who could lay claim to having touched him! Dodge? That boy invented it! And he can run like a jack rabbit. He’s a wonder, and why Wolcott didn’t find it out before that game is more than I know!”
“Did they make the touchdown?” asked Tom.
“Yes, it took them four downs, but they finally got the ball over, and that put the score 14 to 10. We still thought we had the game, and we played for time and stalled all they’d let us. But, shucks, that Grosfawk didn’t know he was licked. Of course we laid for him and he got used sort of hard, but with only a couple of minutes left we didn’t pay so much attention to him as we should have. So what does he do but pull the same stunt? This time he only had about fifty yards to go, and we made him earn them by chasing him back and forth across the field two or three times. I nearly had him once myself. So did most of the others. He got tired of reversing the field after a while. Maybe he was afraid the whistle might go off by accident before he got the touchdown. Anyway, he streaked it through our whole bunch just when it seemed we had him, with two or three of his team interfering by then, and dodged our quarter and went over right between the posts. Well, that spilled the beans good and plenty. Why, we had that old game in our pocket five minutes before! We—we’d even spent it! I guess we were just about the sorriest, saddest, most disgustedest bunch you ever saw that evening!”
Tom chuckled. “Good thing for you fellows Bingham and I came along, I guess. You need some one to look after you and see that those naughty Wolcott boys don’t steal your games. Mighty lucky, I’d say, they didn’t take the uniforms off you fellows when you weren’t looking!”
“You’re a cheeky cuss,” said Billy, but he laughed. “Well, that’s the way the battle was fit, fellows. This year ‘G.G.’ will probably detail a couple of fellows to do nothing but watch Mr. Grosfawk. If he ever gets loose, good-by, game!”
“Oh, piffle,” said Tom. “The guy’s good, I dare say, but you fellows let him hypnotize you. It takes more than one player, no matter how good he is, to win a game. All you’ve got to do this year is break up their passing game. You must have had a slow bunch, I guess.”
“Tom,” said Billy, shaking his head, “you’re a great little know-it-all. You come around and tell me all that again in a couple of months and maybe I’ll believe it. There’s the gong, Bingham. Better beat it. Good night. See you again soon, I hope.”