CHAPTER XVIIWATTLES USES COERCION
“Is it necessary, sir, for Tom Kemble to ask for permission to cut study hour himself?”
“How’s that?” asked Mr. McKnight, smiling. “If Kemble cut study hour he would have to do it himself, wouldn’t he Bingham?”
“Yes, sir. I meant, does he have to ask himself?”
“It would be much better if he asked me, or one of the other faculty members,” responded “Lovey” gravely. “His own permission, supposing he obtained it, would hardly be sufficient, I fear.”
Clif laughed. For once he didn’t find Mr. McKnight’s fooling very funny, but he must be diplomatic. “I guess I can’t say it right, sir, but you know mighty well what I mean.”
“I suspect I do, Bingham. Kemble wants to be excused from study hour, and has sent you as his ambassador. I am to presume, I fancy, that he is too ill to make the request himself. Or does he think that you’ll prove more successful than he would?” Mr. McKnight’s eyes were twinkling.
“No, sir,” answered Clif earnestly, “it really isn’t that way, Mr. McKnight. He—he isn’t able to come.”
“I’m sorry. It isn’t anything serious, I hope.” The instructor’s voice was so genuinely sympathetic thatClif felt ashamed of the deception he was attempting.
“I don’t think so, sir. He didn’t go down to supper, but I guess he will be all right by morning.”
“I hope so. I’m not so sure, though, you shouldn’t have gone to some one on Kemble’s floor. He’s in 34, isn’t he? However, as you are acting in his behalf, and you are on my floor, I’ll take the responsibility of excusing him. Is he in bed?”
“N-no, sir. That is, he wasn’t when I was up there.”
“Oh, better tell him to get to bed, Bingham. That’s the best place for him, no matter what’s wrong. Probably just an upset of his tummy. You chaps take awful chances, the way in which you stuff yourselves with sweet chocolate and peanuts and Heaven only knows what! By the way, Kemble’s on restriction, isn’t he?”
“Yes, sir. He got in wrong with ‘Alick’—I mean Mr. Wyatt!”
Mr. McKnight’s nose twitched, but he didn’t smile. “Too bad. I dare say that’s upset him somewhat, too. I’ll look in on him a little later and see if he needs anything.”
“I’m sure he doesn’t, sir,” said Clif hurriedly, striving to keep the sound of panic from his voice. “I think he means to go to sleep.”
“Best thing for him. Tell him it’s all right about study hour, Bingham, and that he’s to get into bed. I don’t want to find him up, reading stories, when I call!”
“Yes, sir—I mean no, sir!” stammered Clif. “I’ll tell him. I don’t believe he’d want you to bother aboutlooking in on him, though.” Then, seeing or fancying he saw, the dawning of suspicion in “Lovey’s” eyes, Clif abandoned that line quickly. “Well, thank you, sir.”
“Not at all, Bingham.” When the visitor had gone Mr. McKnight protruded his lower lip, closed his eyes slightly and stared thoughtfully at the ink-well. Finally he shook his head. “If it were any one but Bingham, now,” he murmured, “I’d be inclined to suspect that something had been put over on me!”
Upstairs again, in Number 34, Clif related to Billy Desmond, in a somewhat small voice, the result of his visit. “Gee, if he does come up it’s all off! What’ll I do, Billy? I didn’t lie to him, but he will think I did, and I’d hate that!”
“Huh,” said Billy, pinching his nose as an aid to concentration of thought, “there’s just one chance, Clif, and we’ll have to risk it.” From his closet he gathered an armful of clothing, turned down Tom’s immaculate bed, heaped the clothing on the sheet and pulled blankets and coverlet back into place. From the end of the room the illusion was only fairly successful, but when Billy had turned the light out, and opened the corridor door, admitting the wan radiance from without, none but the most suspicious would have doubted that Tom lay there fast asleep, his head covered by the sheet. Billy chuckled approvingly. Then he threw a pair of his own trousers and a towel, and an old coat over the back of the chair by Tom’s bed and tucked a pair of shoes underneath it. After that, still chucklingat intervals, Billy got his books and closed the door behind himself and Clif.
“That’s the best we can do,” he said, as they made their way down the stairs. “It may fool him and it may not. The rest, Clif, is in the lap of the gods!”
It was about half-past eight when Mr. McKnight finished Chopin’s Waltz in G Flat Major, and arose from the piano. Study hour was the one hour of the twenty-four in which he felt at liberty to use the piano to his heart’s content, and he was loth to lose the time entailed by a visit to Number 34. Even after he was on his feet another sheet of music caught his eye, and he opened it on the rack and tentatively fingered the first bars before finally and resolutely tearing himself away. The corridors were pleasantly silent as he made his way upstairs and tapped lightly at the closed portal of Number 34. There was no reply, and he turned the knob and thrust the door inward. The room was in darkness and no sound came to him. Evidently his advice had been acted on, for Kemble was not only in bed but sleeping extraordinarily peacefully. Mr. McKnight’s gaze took in the shoes beneath the chair, and the garments above. The sleeper remained undisturbed, oblivious of the intrusion. The instructor smiled as he closed the door softly again and walked noiselessly away.
“Nothing much wrong with him, I guess, if he can sleep like that,” he told himself as he sought the stairway. “Probably be all right when he wakes up.” Thenhis thoughts went forward to the piece of music on the piano rack, and his steps became swifter.
That ride to Danbury was long and wearisome to Tom. Waiting in the shadows of the station at Freeburg, after he had decided not to risk purchasing a ticket, but to pay his fare on the train, had been sort of exciting, and even after the station lights and the lights of the town itself had faded behind him a certain zest in the adventure had remained. But soon, what with the overheated car, the uncomfortable seat, the numerous stops and the dust that drifted in at every opening, the excitement dwindled fast. At the end of an hour he had begun to doubt the brilliancy of the exploit. For one thing, it was going to be extremely hard sledding to convince his guardian that he had taken the right course; the more so since Tom hadn’t yet succeeded in convincing himself. Mr. Winslow, an estimable gentleman despite Tom’s prejudices, was a lawyer, and, being a lawyer, his judgment was not easily swayed. You just had to have a good case, and Tom was horribly afraid he hadn’t! Well, one thing was certain. If Old Winslow insisted on his returning to Wyndham he just wouldn’t! No, sir, he’d run away first. Maybe he’d go to sea. No, he wouldn’t, either. You couldn’t play football at sea! But he’d go somewhere.
Then there was Clif. He had grown to be rather fond of Clif. Until six weeks ago he had never had a real chum. He had been friendly with lots of fellows,but close to none. He was going to miss Clif a whole lot; was missing him already, in fact. And there was Billy, too; and Loring Deane. They were, all three, corking chaps, and back home there wouldn’t be any one to take their places. If it wasn’t that it was already too late—
He pushed his suitcase forward where he could set his feet on it, let his knees dig into the back of the seat in front, and moodily stared along the length of the ill-lighted coach. No, it was too late to change his mind. Study hour was almost over now, and they’d have discovered his absence long since. Besides, there probably wasn’t any way of getting back, even if he wanted to; and, of course, he didn’t. Wyatt had played him a rotten trick, and to-morrow the old pest would maybe realize it! And, anyway, what was the good of being back there when he couldn’t play football again this season? Heck, he had done just what any fellow with an ounce of gumption and spirit would do, and he was glad of it!
These reflections brought him to the lights of the junction, and a few minutes later he was descending the car steps, one of a half-hundred passengers from the north. To find himself staring into the solemnly respectful countenance of Wattles was such a surprising experience that it was several seconds before he found his voice, and during those seconds his suitcase was removed from his grasp. Finally: “Why, Wattles, were you on that train?” he exclaimed.
“No, sir, I came by car,” replied the other. “Quitea bit colder, sir, isn’t it? One can do with a coat to-night, Mister Tom, and I see you have yours with you.” Suitcase in hand, Wattles led the way around the end of the station, and it was not until he had started across the track on the farther side that Tom realized what was happening.
“Hold on, Wattles! What’s the idea?” he asked, stopping.
“The car’s just over here, sir.”
“What car? I didn’t order any car!”
“No, sir. Mister Loring and Mr. Clif sent it. I was to tell you that everything was quite all right, sir. It’s all absolutelysub rosa, Mister Tom. We’ll get back to the school by midnight—”
“So that’s it?” Tom laughed roughly. “Expect me to go back with you in the car, eh? Well, nothing doing, Wattles. I’m off that dump for keeps. Let’s have that bag, please.”
“Certainly, sir, but if you wouldn’t mind just coming across to the car. I’ve a robe and you’ll be quite warm. Your train doesn’t leave for rather more than a half-hour, sir, and I’d like very much to deliver my message, Mister Tom.”
“Oh, well, all right,” Tom grumbled. “Go ahead. But I’ll tell you right here and now, Wattles, that it’s no good. It was mighty nice of them to do this, and all that, but I’ve no idea of going back.”
“Quite so, sir. Thank you. Right this way.”
The car stood well away from the station, the street lights revealing its black bulk, and the figure of thedriver on the front seat. Tom laughed as Wattles held the tonneau door open. “Some class to you, Wattles! Where’d you get the boat?”
“In the village, sir.” Wattles was unfolding a large and heavy rug. “It’s not a new car, sir, but it’s really most competent.”
“Funny idea—” began Tom, with a chuckle. Then; “Say! What are you trying—”
The big robe which Wattles, standing beside him in the back of the car, had spread open had enveloped him. For the briefest instant Tom thought that Wattles, meaning to lay the rug across his knees, had stumbled against the suitcase and fallen against him. But that idea vanished before the sudden knowledge that Wattles had tricked him! He shouted protestingly, but the folds of the thick cloth, dust laden and odorous of the stable, were about his head, muffling the outcry and almost choking him. He strove to get to his feet, to push himself free, but in vain. Something, a rope or a strap, cinched his arms to his body. He kicked out wildly, felt himself slip from the seat to the floor, found the suitcase under his shrouded head, and knew that Wattles was sitting on his legs!
It had all taken less than a minute, and now the driver had scrambled back to the front seat, and the engine was shaking the car. Then they were moving. Tom, panting from his exertions, relaxed and took a long breath. Dust filled his throat and nostrils, and he sneezed violently. Wrath induced one final struggle, but, although momentarily unseated, Wattles remainedin command of the situation. Tom stopped writhing and considered events with a fair degree of calmness.
The car, a good one although of ancient vintage, after negotiating the streets of the town at moderate speed, was now on a straight hard road, and the engine’s voice arose to a louder song. Wattles, who had removed his overcoat before meeting Tom—it was a newish coat, and he wanted nothing unfortunate to happen to it in case Tom proved obstinate—shivered as, sitting sidewise on Tom’s legs, he strove to keep his balance, and at the same time protect himself from the rush of the cold night wind. It was a most uncomfortable position, but Wattles was game. With Wattles duty was duty, and he was prepared to sit like that all the way back to Freeburg if necessary.
But it wasn’t necessary. Some ten minutes after they had left the station there was a series of muffled sounds from under the robe and Wattles, leaning nearer, said: “Pardon, Mister Tom. Will you say that again, please, sir?”
“I said if you don’t take this pesky thing off I’ll smother!” answered Tom through the folds.
“Yes, sir, I’m afraid it’s rather uncomfortable, and I’m sure you’ll understand, sir, how much I deplore the necessity of the—the methods—”
“I can’t hear what you’re saying!” shouted Tom in exasperation. “Take this off me! Let me out!”
“Certainly, sir, only, asking your pardon, Mister Tom, I must have your agreement not to leave the car.”
“Go to thunder!” said Tom.
“Yes, sir.” Wattles retreated, shivering violently. After a minute more sounds reached him from beneath the rug and again he leaned closer.
“I’ll promise, Wattles, you blamed idiot! Only take this horse blanket off me!”
“Yes, indeed, sir! Just a moment!” Wattles’s hands were busied, the restraint vanished from Tom’s arms, the awful robe dragged chokingly away from his face, and he sat up, gasping. Wattles, balancing himself precariously on his feet, was holding the robe and, as shown by the brief radiance of a passing light, shivering like an aspen. Tom could almost hear the chattering of his teeth. That momentary vision of the long, mournful countenance, agitated by the shivers that chased up and down Wattles’s spine, was too much for Tom. He forgot that he was dreadfully angry and humiliated, and burst into wild laughter.
The driver turned an inquiring face, looked briefly, and unemotionally gave his attention back to the road. Wattles, fearing hysteria, looked down in grave anxiety, and shivered harder than ever. At last: “For the love of mud, Wattles, put your coat on!” gasped Tom as he weakly pulled himself onto the seat.
“Yes, sir, just what I was about to do, sir.” Nevertheless, Wattles first placed the robe over Tom’s knees, and tucked it about him carefully. Then, at last, he managed to get his wavering hands into the armholes of his coat, buttoned it tightly and seated himself at the extreme limit of the wide seat. “If you’d preferto sit in front, sir, I fancy you’d find it quite a bit warmer.”
“I’m all right, but don’t be an ass, Wattles. Slide over here and get some of this over you.”
“Thank you, Mister Tom, but I’m very comfortable.”
“You do as I tell you,” commanded Tom ferociously. “Mind you, Wattles, you and that pal of yours there may be able to get the best of me when I’m not looking for it, but I can lick either one or both of you in a fair scrap. Here, lay this across and sit on the edge of it.”
“Yes, sir. And I’m quite certain you’d be a match for us both, Mister Tom, and no mistake.”
“I’ll say so,” agreed Tom, mollified. “Just the same, Wattles, I’ve got to hand it to you for turning a neat trick. I suppose, though, Loring planned that, eh?”
“No, sir,” replied Wattles modestly. “Mister Loring just said I was to bring you back. Beyond that, sir, I was obliged to proceed quite on my own. Sorry, sir, that the exigency of the occasion demanded a certain amount of coercion.”
“Coercion! Is that what you call it, Wattles? Man, you’re a scream!”
“Should I have said compulsion?” asked Wattles anxiously.
“I’ll say you should!” Tom’s spirits were rising rapidly. Of course, he hadn’t meant to return to Wyndham; hadn’t wanted to, indeed; but the matter had been taken out of his hands, and, now that the diewas cast, he would make the best of it. And, sitting there snuggled under the warm rug, with the old car hitting on all six, with the nipping air stinging his face, he listened to Wattles’s explanation of the events leading up to his present situation and felt that the best was mighty good!