“’Tis the most disthressful counthryThat ever there was seen;For they’re hanging men and women tooFor wearin’ of the green.”
“’Tis the most disthressful counthryThat ever there was seen;For they’re hanging men and women tooFor wearin’ of the green.”
There was much applause; boys from other rooms went hurrying down the corridor. The banjo-player struck up “The Road to Mandalay;” again Irving recognized Westby’s voice.
Irving decided that he must not be thin-skinned; it was his part to step up, be genial, make himself known to all these boys who were to be under his care, and show them that he wished to be friendly. He did not wait to debate with himself the wisdom of this resolve or to consider how he should proceed; he acted on the impulse. He walked down the corridor to the third room on the left—the door of Westby’s room, from which the sounds of joviality proceeded. He knocked; some one called “Come in;” and Irving opened the door.
Three boys sat in chairs, three sat on the bed; Westby himself was squatting cross-legged on the window seat, with the banjo across his knees. They all rose politely when Irving entered.
“I thought I would drop in and make youracquaintance,” said Irving. “We’re bound to know one another some time.”
“My name’s Collingwood,” said the boy nearest him, offering his hand. He was a healthy, light-haired, solidly put together youth, with a genial smile. “This is Scarborough, Mr. Upton.”
The biggest of them all came forward at that and shook hands. Irving thought that his deep-set dark eyes were disconcertingly direct in their gaze; and a lock of black hair overhung his brow in a far from propitiating manner. Yet his bearing was dignified and manly; Irving felt that he might be trusted to show magnanimity.
“Here’s Carroll,” continued Collingwood; and Irving said, “Oh, I know Carroll; we sat together at supper.” Carroll said nothing, merely smiled in an agreeable, non-committal manner; so far it was all that Irving had discovered he could do.
“That fellow with the angel face is Morrill,” Collingwood went on, “and the one next to him, with the aristocratic features, is Baldersnaith,and this red-head here is Dennison,—and that’s Westby.”
Irving, shaking hands round the circle, said, “Oh, I know Westby.”
“Sit down, won’t you, Mr. Upton?” Westby pushed his armchair forward.
“Thank you; don’t let me interrupt the singing.”
“Maybe you’ll join us?”
Irving shook his head. “I wish I could. But please go on.”
Westby squatted again on the window-seat and plucked undecidedly at the banjo-strings. Then he cleared his throat and launched upon a negro melody; he sang it with the unctuous abandon of the darkey, and Irving listened and looked on enviously, admiring the display of talent. Westby sang another song, and then turned and pushed up the window.
“Awfully hot for this time of year, isn’t it?” he said. “Fine moonlight night; wouldn’t it be great to go for a swim?”
“Um!” said Morrill, appreciatively.
“Will you let us go, Mr. Upton?” Westbyasked the question pleadingly. “Won’t you please let us go? It’s such a fine warm moonlight night—and it isn’t as if school had really begun, you know.”
“But I think the rules don’t permit your being out at this time of night, do they?” said Irving.
“Well, but as I say, school hasn’t really begun yet. And besides, Scabby here is almost as good as a master—and so is Lou Collingwood; I’m the only really irresponsible one in the bunch—”
“Where do you go to swim?”
“In the pond, just beyond the isthmus—only about a quarter of a mile from here. Come on, fellows, Mr. Upton’s going to let us go.”
Irving laughed uneasily. “Oh, I didn’t say that. If Mr. Randolph is willing that you should go, I wouldn’t object.”
“You’re in charge of this dormitory,” argued Westby. “And if you gave us permission, Mr. Randolph wouldn’t say anything.”
“I don’t feel that I can make an exception to the rules,” said Irving.
“But school hasn’t really begun yet,” persisted Westby.
“I think it really has, so far as observing the rules is concerned,” replied Irving.
“You might go with us, sir—and that would make it all right.”
“But I don’t believe I want to go in swimming this evening.”
“I’m awfully afraid you’re going to be just like granite, Mr. Upton,” sighed Westby,—“the man with the iron jaw.” He turned on the others a humorous look; they all were smiling. Irving felt uncomfortable again, suspecting that Westby was making game of him, yet not knowing in what way to meet it—except by silence.
“I’ll tell you what I will do with you to-morrow, Wes,” said Collingwood. “I’ll challenge you to that water duel that we were to have pulled off last June.”
“All right, Lou,” said Westby. “Carrie here will be my trusty squire and will paddle my canoe.”
Carroll grinned his assent.
“I’ll pick Ned Morrill for my second,” said Collingwood. “And Scabby can be referee.”
“What’s a water duel?” asked Irving.
“They go out in canoes, two in each canoe,” answered Scarborough. “One fellow paddles, and the other stands up in the bow with a long pole and a big fat sponge tied to the end of it. Then the two canoes manœuvre, and try to get within striking distance, and the fellow or canoe that gets upset first loses. We had a tournament last spring, and these two pairs came through to the finals, but never fought it out—baseball or tennis or something always interfered.”
“It must be quite an amusing game,” said Irving.
“Come up to the swimming hole to-morrow afternoon if you want to see it,” said Collingwood, hospitably. “I’ll just about drown Westby. It will be a good show.”
“Thank you; I’d like to—”
“But don’t you think, Mr. Upton,”—again it was Westby, with his cajoling voice and hiswheedling smile,—“that I might have just one evening’s moonlight practice for it?”
“Oh, I don’t believe you need any practice.”
“But you said I might if Mr. Randolph would consent. I don’t see why you shouldn’t be independent, as well as liberal.”
There was a veiled insinuation in this, for all the good-natured, teasing tone, and Irving did not like it.
“No,” he said. “I’m sorry, but I’m afraid I can’t let you go swimming to-night.—I’m glad to have met you all.” And so he took his departure, and presently the sound of banjo and singing rose again from Westby’s room.
Irving proceeded to visit the other rooms of the dormitory and to make the acquaintance of the occupants—boys engaged mostly in arranging bureau drawers or hanging pictures. They were all friendly enough; it seemed to him that he could get on with boys individually; it was when they faced him in numbers that they alarmed him and causedhis manner to be hesitating and embarrassed. One big fellow named Allison was trying to hang a picture when Irving entered; it was a large and heavy picture, and Irving held it straight while Allison stood on a chair and set the hook on the moulding. Allison thanked Irving with the gratitude of one unaccustomed to receiving such consideration; indeed, his uncouthness and unkemptness made him one of those unfortunate boys who suffered now and then from persecution. Irving learned afterwards that the crowd he had met in Westby’s room hung together and were the leaders not merely in the affairs of the dormitory, but of the school.
At half past nine the big bell on the Study building rang twice—the signal for the boys to go to their respective rooms. Irving had been informed of the little ceremony which was the custom; he stepped out in front of his door at the end of the corridor, and one after another the boys came up, shook hands with him, and bade him good-night. Westby came to him with the engaging and yet somewhatdisquieting smile which recalled to Irving Mr. Wythe’s words, “He smiles and smiles, but is a villain still.” It was a smile which seemed to suggest the discernment and enjoyment of all one’s weak spots.
“Good-night, Mr. Upton,” said Westby, and his voice was excessively urbane. It made Irving look forward to a better acquaintance with both expectancy and apprehension.
The first morning of actual school work went well enough; Irving met his classes, which were altogether in mathematics, assigned them lessons, and managed to keep them and himself busy. From one of them he brought away some algebra exercises, which he spent part of the afternoon in correcting. When he had finished this work, the invitation to witness the water duel occurred to his mind.
He found no other master to bear him company, so he set off by himself through the woods which bordered the pond behind the Gymnasium. He came at last to the “isthmus”—a narrow dyke of stones which cut off a long inlet and bridged the way over to awooded peninsula that jutted out into the pond. On the farther side of this peninsula, secluded behind trees and bushes, was the swimming hole.
As Irving approached, he heard voices; he drew nearer and saw the bare backs of boys undressing and heard then the defiances which they were hurling at one another—phrased in the language of Ivanhoe.
“Nay, by my halidome, but I shall this day do my devoir right worthily upon the body of yon false knight,” quoth Westby, as he carefully turned his shirt right side out.
“A murrain on thee! Beshrew me if I do not spit thee upon my trusty lance,” replied Collingwood, as he drew on his swimming tights.
Then some one trotted out upon the spring-board, gave a bounce and a leap, and went into the water with a splash.
“How is it, Ned?” called Westby; and Irving came up as Morrill, reaching out for a long side stroke, shouted, “Oh, fine—warm and fine.”
“Hello, Mr. Upton.” It was Baldersnaith who first saw him; Baldersnaith, Dennison, and Smythe were fully dressed and were sitting under a tree looking on.
“You’re just in time,” said Collingwood.
Scarborough, stripped like Westby and Carroll and Morrill and Collingwood, was out on the pond, paddling round in a canoe. He was crouched on one knee in the middle, and the canoe careened over with his weight, so that the gunwale was only an inch or two above the surface. He was evidently an expert paddler, swinging the craft round, this way and that, without ever taking the paddle out of the water.
Two other canoes were hauled up near the spring-board; Carroll was bending over one of them.
“Bring me my lethal weapon, Carrie,” Westby commanded. “I want to show Mr. Upton.—Is the button on tight?”
Carroll produced from the canoe a long pole with an enormous sponge fastened to one end; he pulled at the sponge and announced,“Yes, the button’s on tight,” and passed the pole over to Westby.
Westby made one or two experimental lunges with it and remarked musingly, “When I catch him square above the bread line with this—!”
“Come on, then!” said Collingwood. “Come here, Ned!”
Morrill swam ashore and pushed off in one of the canoes with Collingwood—taking the stern seat and the paddle. Collingwood knelt in the bow, with his spear laid across the gun-wales in front of him. In like manner Westby and Carroll took to the water.
“This is the best two bouts out of three,” called Scarborough, as he circled round. “Don’t you want to come aboard, Mr. Upton, and help judge?”
“Why, yes, thank you,” said Irving.
So Scarborough called, “Wait a moment, fellows,” and paddling ashore, took on his passenger. Then he sped out to the middle of the bay; the two other canoes were separated by about fifty feet.
“Charge!” cried Scarborough, and Morrill and Carroll began paddling towards each other, while in the bows Collingwood and Westby rose to their feet and held their spears in front of them. They advanced cautiously and then swung apart, evading the collision—each trying to tempt the other to stab and overreach.
“Oh, you’re both scared!” jeered Baldersnaith from the shore.
The canoes swung about and made for each other again; and this time passed within striking distance. Westby’s aim missed, his sponge-tipped lance slid past Collingwood’s shoulder, and the next instant Collingwood’s sponge—well weighted with water—smote Westby full in the chest and hove him overboard. For one moment Carroll struggled to keep the canoe right side up, but in vain; it tipped and filled, and with a shout he plunged in head foremost after his comrade.
They came up and began to push their canoe ashore; the two other canoes drew alongside and assisted, Scarborough and Morrillpaddling, while Irving and Collingwood laid hold of the thwarts.
“That’s all right; I’ll get you this time,” spluttered Westby. “We’re going to use strategy now.”
They emptied the water out of the canoe and proceeded again to the battleground. Then, when Scarborough gave the word, Carroll began paddling madly; he and Westby bore down upon their antagonists at a most threatening speed. Morrill swung to the right to get out of their path; and then suddenly Carroll swung in the opposite direction—with what strategic purpose neither Irving nor Scarborough had time to conjecture. For they were loitering close on that side, not expecting any such manœuvre; the sharp turn drove the bow of Carroll’s canoe straight for the waist of Scarborough’s, and Westby with an excited laugh undertook to fend off with his pole, lost his balance, and trying to recover it, upset both canoes together.
Irving felt himself going, heard Westby’s laughing shout, “Look out, Mr. Upton!” and then went under.
[Illustration: THE CANOES SWUNG ABOUT AND MADE FOR EACH OTHER]THE CANOES SWUNG ABOUT AND MADE FOR EACH OTHER
TOC
The water was warm, but Irving swallowed a good deal of it and also was conscious of the fact that he had on a perfectly good suit of clothes. So he came to the surface, choking and annoyed; and when he recovered his faculties, he observed first of all Westby’s grinning face.
“You can swim all right, can’t you, Mr. Upton?” said Westby. “I thought for a moment we might have to dive for you.”
Irving clutched at the stern of the capsized canoe and said, rather curtly, “I’m not dressed to enjoy swimming.”
“I’m awfully sorry,” said Scarborough. “But I never thought they were going to turn that way; I don’t know what Carrie thought he was doing—”
“I’d have shown you some strategy ifyou hadn’t blundered into us,” declared Carroll.
“Blundered into you! There was no need for Wes to give us such a poke, anyhow.”
Westby replied merely with an irritating chuckle—irritating at least to Irving, who felt that he should be showing more contrition.
Collingwood and Morrill came alongside, both laughing, jeering at Westby and offering polite expressions of solicitude to the master. They told him to lay hold of the tail of their canoe, and then they towed him ashore as rapidly as possible. When he drew himself up, dripping, on the bank, Baldersnaith, Dennison, and Smythe were all on the broad grin, and from the water floated the sound of Westby’s merriment.
Irving stood for a moment, letting himself drip, quite undecided as to what he should do. He had never been ducked before, with all his clothes on; the clammy, weighted sensation was most unpleasant, the thought of his damaged and perhaps ruined suit was galling, the indignity of his appearance was particularlyhard to bear. He felt that Baldersnaith and the others were trying to be as polite and considerate as possible, and yet they could not refrain from exhibiting their amusement, their delight.
Scarborough, who had swum ahead of the others, waded ashore and looked him over. “I tell you what you’d better do, Mr. Upton,” he said. “You’d better take your clothes off, wring them out, and spread them out to dry. They’ll dry in this sun and wind. And while they’re doing that, you can come in swimming with us.”
Irving hesitated a moment; instinct told him that the advice was sensible, yet he shrank from accepting it; he felt that for a master to do what Scarborough suggested would be undignified, and might somehow compromise his position. “I think I’d better run home and rub myself down and put on some dry things,” he replied.
“Well,” said Scarborough, “just as you say. Sorry I got you into this mess.”
“Oh, it’s all right,” said Irving.
He walked away, with the water trickling uncomfortably down him inside his clothes and swashing juicily in his shoes. He liked Scarborough for the way he had acted, but he felt less kindly towards Westby. He was by no means sure that Westby had not deliberately soused him and then pretended it was an accident. He remembered Westby’s mirthful laugh just when the thing was happening; and certainly if it had really been an accident Westby had shown very little concern. He had been indecently amused; he was so still; his clear joyous laugh was ringing after Irving even now, and Irving felt angrily that he was at this moment a ridiculous figure. To be running home drenched!—probably it would have been better if he had done what Scarborough had suggested, less undignified, more manly really. But he couldn’t turn back now.
He was cold and his teeth had begun to chatter, so he started to run. He hoped that when he came out of the woods he might be fortunate enough to elude observation on theway to the Upper School, but in this he was disappointed. As he jogged by the Study building, with his clothes jouncing and slapping heavily upon his shoulders, out came the rector and met him face to face.
“Upset canoeing?” asked the rector with a smile.
“Yes,” Irving answered; he stood for a moment awkwardly.
“Well, it will happen sometimes,” said the rector. “Don’t catch cold.” And he passed on.
There was some consolation for Irving in this matter-of-fact view. In the rector’s eyes apparently his dignity had not suffered by the incident. But when a moment later he passed a group of Fourth Formers and they turned and stared at him, grinning, he felt that his dignity had suffered very much. He felt that within a short time his misfortune would be the talk of the school.
At supper it was as he expected it would be. Westby set about airing the story for the benefit of the table, appealing now and then toIrving himself for confirmation of the passages which were least gratifying to Irving’s vanity. “Youdidlook so woe-begone when you stood up on shore, Mr. Upton,” was the genial statement which Irving especially resented. To have Westby tell the boys the first day how he had called the new master a new kid and the second day how he had ducked him was a little too much; it seemed to Irving that Westby was slyly amusing himself by undermining his authority. But the boy’s manner was pleasantly ingratiating always; Irving felt baffled. Carroll did not help him much towards an interpretation; Carroll sat by self-contained, quietly intelligent, amused. Irving liked both the boys, and yet as the days passed, he seemed to grow more and more uneasy and anxious in their society.
In the classroom he was holding his own; he was a good mathematical scholar, he prepared the lessons thoroughly, and he found it generally easy to keep order by assigning problems to be worked out in class. The weather continued good, so that during playtime the fellows were out of doors instead of loafing round in dormitory. They all had their own little affairs to organize; athletic clubs and literary societies held their first meetings; there was a process of general shaking down; and in the interest and industry occasioned by all this, there was not much opportunity or disposition to make trouble.
But the first Sunday was a bad day. In a boys’ school bad weather is apt to be accompanied by bad behavior; on this Sunday it poured. The boys, having put on their best clothes, were obliged, when they went out to chapel, to wear rubbers and to carry umbrellas—an imposition against which they rebelled. After chapel, there was an hour before dinner, and in that hour most of the Sixth Formers sought their rooms—or sought one another’s rooms; it seemed to Irving, who was trying to read and who had a headache, that there was a needless amount of rushing up and down the corridors and of slamming of doors. By and by the tumult became uproarious, shouts of laughter and the sound of heavy bodies beingflung against walls reached his ears; he emerged then and saw the confusion at the end of the corridor. Allison was suspended two or three feet above the floor, by a rope knotted under his arms; it was the rope that was used for raising trunks up to the loft above. In lowering it from the loft some one had trespassed on forbidden ground. Westby, Collingwood, Dennison, Scarborough, and half a dozen others were gathered, enjoying Allison’s ludicrous struggles. His plight was not painful, only absurd; and Irving himself could not at first keep back a smile. But he came forward and said,—
“Oh, look here, fellows, whoever is responsible for this will have to climb up and release Allison.”
Westby turned with his engaging smile.
“Yes, but, Mr. Upton, who do you suppose is responsible? I don’t see how we can fix the responsibility, do you?”
“I will undertake to fix it,” said Irving. “Westby, suppose you climb that ladder and let Allison down.”
“I don’t think you’re approaching this matter in quite a judicial spirit, Mr. Upton,” said Westby. “Of course no man wants to be arbitrary; he wants to be just. It really seems to me, Mr. Upton, that no action should be taken until the matter has been more thoroughly sifted.”
The other boys, with the exception of Allison, were chuckling at this glib persuasiveness. Westby stood there, in a calmly respectful, even deferential attitude, as if animated only by a desire to serve the truth.
“We will have no argument about it, Westby,” said Irving. “Please climb the ladder at once and release Allison.”
“I beg of you, Mr. Upton,” said Westby in a tone of distress, “don’t, please don’t, confuse argument with impartial inquiry; nothing is more distasteful to me than argument. I merely ask for investigation; I court it in your own interest as well as mine.”
Irving grew rigid. His head was throbbing painfully; the continued snickering all round him and Westby’s increasing confidence andfluency grated on his nerves. He drew out his watch.
“I will give you one minute in which to climb that ladder,” he said.
“Mr. Upton, you wish to be a just man,” pleaded Westby. “Even though you have the great weight of authority—and years”—Westby choked a laugh—“behind you, don’t do an unjust and arbitrary thing. Allison himself wouldn’t have you—would you, Allison?”
The victim grinned uncomfortably.
“Mr. Upton,” urged Westby, “you wouldn’t have me soil these hands?” He displayed his laudably clean, pink fingers. “Of course, if I go up there I shall get my hands all dirty—and equally of course if I had been up there, they would be all dirty now. Surely you believe in the value of circumstantial evidence; therefore, before we fix the responsibility, let us search for the dirty pair of hands.”
“Time is up,” said Irving, closing his watch.
“But what is time when justice trembles in the balance?” argued Westby. “When theinnocent is in danger of being punished for the guilty, when—”
“Westby, please climb that ladder at once.”
“So young and so inexorable!” murmured Westby, setting his foot upon the ladder.
Irving’s face was red; the tittering of the audience was making him angry. He held his eyes on Westby, who made a slow, grunting progress up three rungs and then stopped.
“Mr. Upton, Mr. Upton, sir!” Westby’s voice was ingratiating. “Mayn’t Allison sing for us, sir?”
Allison grinned again foolishly and sent a sprawling foot out towards his persecutor; the others laughed.
“Keep on climbing,” said Irving.
Westby resumed his toilsome way, and as he moved he kept murmuring remarks to Allison, to the others, to Irving himself, half audible, rapid, in an aggrieved tone.
“Don’t see why you want to be conspicuous this way, Allison.—Won’t sing—amuse anybody—ornamental, I suppose—good timekeeper though—almost hear you tick. Mr.Upton—setting watch by you now—awfully severe kind of man—”
So mumbling, with the responsive titter still continuing below and Irving standing there stern and red, Westby disappeared into the loft. There was a moment’s silence, then a sudden clicking of a ratchet wheel, and Allison began to rise rapidly towards the ceiling.
“A-ay!” cried Allison in amazement.
The boys burst out in delighted laughter.
“Westby! Westby! Stop that!” Irving’s voice was shrill with anger.
Allison became stationary once more, and Westby displayed an innocent, surprised face at the loft opening.
“If there is any more nonsense in letting Allison down, I shall really have to report you.” Irving’s voice rose tremulously to a high key; he was trying hard to control it.
Westby gazed down with surprise. “Why, I guess I must have turned the crank the wrong way, don’t you suppose I did, Mr. Upton?—Don’t worry, Allison, old man;I’ll rescue you, never fear. I’ll try to lower you gently, so that you won’t get hurt; you’ll call out if you find you’re coming down too fast, won’t you?”
He withdrew his head, and presently the ratchet wheel clicked and slowly, very slowly, Allison began to descend. When his feet were a couple of inches from the floor, the descent stopped.
“All right now?” called Westby from above.
“No!” bawled Allison.
“Ve-ry gently then, ve-ry gently,” replied Westby; and Allison, reaching for the floor with his toes, had at last the satisfaction of feeling it. He wriggled out of the noose and smoothed out his rumpled coat.
“Saved!” exclaimed Westby, peering down from the opening, and then he added sorrowfully, “Saved, and no word of gratitude to his rescuer!”
“Now, boys, don’t stand round here any longer; we’ve had enough nonsense; go to your rooms,” said Irving.
“Mr. Upton, Mr. Upton, Mr. Upton, sir!” clamored Westby, and the boys lingered.
Irving looked up in exasperation. “What is it now?”
“May I come down, please, sir?”
“Yes.”
“Thank you, sir.”
Carefully Westby descended the ladder, mumbling all the time sentences of which the lingerers caught fragmentary scraps: “Horrible experience that of Allison’s—dreadful situation to have been in—so fortunate that I was at hand—the man who dares—reckless courage, ready resource—home again!” He dropped to the floor, and raising his hand to his forehead, saluted Irving.
“Come, move on, all you fellows,” said Irving; the others were still hanging about and laughing; “move on, move on! Carroll, you and Westby take that ladder down and put it back where you got it.”
He stayed to see that the order was carried out; then he returned to his room. He felt that though he had conquered in this instance,he had adopted the wrong tone, and that he must offer something else than peevishness and irritation to ward off Westby’s humor; already it gave indications of becoming too audacious. Yet on the whole Irving was pleased because he had at least asserted himself—and had rather enjoyed doing it. And an hour later it seemed to him that he had lost all that he had gained.
Roast beef was the unvarying dish at Sunday dinner; a large and fragrant sirloin was set before the head of each table to be carved. Irving took up the carving knife and fork with some misgivings. Hitherto he had had nothing more difficult to deal with than steaks or chops or croquettes or stews; and carving was an art that he had never learned; confronted by the necessity, he was amazed to find that he had so little idea of how to proceed. The first three slices came off readily enough, though they were somewhat ragged, and Irving was aware that Westby was surveying his operations with a critical interest. The knife seemed to grow more dull, the meatmore wobbly, more tough, the bone got more and more in the way; the maid who was passing the vegetables was waiting, all the boys except the three who had been helped first were waiting, coldly critical, anxiously apprehensive; silence at this table had begun to reign.
Irving felt himself blushing and muttered, “This knife’s awfully dull,” as he sawed away. At last he hacked off an unsightly slab and passed it to Westby, whose turn it was and who wrinkled his nose at it in disfavor.
“Please have this knife sharpened,” Irving said to the maid. She put down the potatoes and the corn, and departed with the instrument to the kitchen.
Irving glanced at the other tables; everybody seemed to have been served, everybody was eating; Scarborough, who was in charge of the next table, had entirely demolished his roast.
“I’m sorry to keep you fellows waiting,” Irving said, “but that’s the dullest knife I ever handled.”
He addressed the remark to the totally unprovided side of his table; he turned his head just in time to catch Westby’s humorous mouth and droll droop of an eyelid. The other boys smiled, and Irving’s cheeks grew more hot.
“You’ll excuse me, Mr. Upton, if I don’t wait, won’t you?” said Westby. “Don’t get impatient, fellows.”
The maid returned with the carving knife; Westby paused in his eating to observe. Irving made another unsuccessful effort; the meat quivered and shook and slid under his attack, and the knife slipped and clashed down upon the platter.
“Perhaps if you would stand up to it, sir, you would do better,” suggested Westby, in an insidious voice. “Nobody else does, but if it would be easier—”
“Thank you, but the suggestion is unnecessary,” Irving retorted. He added to the other boys, while he struggled, “It’s the meat, I guess, not the knife, after all—”
“Why, I shouldn’t say it was the meat,” interposed Westby. “The meat’s quite tender.”
Irving glanced at him in silent fury, clamped his lips together, and went on sawing. He finally was able to hand to Carroll a plate on which reposed a mussy-looking heap of beef. Carroll wrinkled his nose over it as Westby had done.
“If I might venture to suggest, sir,” said Westby politely, “you could send it out and have it carved in the kitchen.”
Irving surrendered; he looked up and said to the maid,—
“Please take this out and have it carved outside.”
He felt that he could almost cry from the humiliation, but instead he tried to assume cheerfulness and dignity.
“I’m sorry,” he said, “to have to keep you fellows waiting; we’ll try to arrange things so that it won’t happen again.”
The boys accepted the apology in gloomy silence. At Scarborough’s table their plight was exciting comment; Irving was aware of the curious glances which had been occasioned by the withdrawal of the roast. It seemed tohim that he was publicly disgraced; there was a peculiar ignominy in sitting at the head of a table and being unable to perform the simplest duty of host. Worst of all, in the encounter with Westby he had lost ground.
The meat was brought on again, sliced in a manner which could not conceal the unskillfulness of the original attack.
“Stone cold!” exclaimed Blake, the first boy to test it.
Irving’s temper flew up. “Don’t be childish,” he said. “And don’t make any more comments about this matter. It’s of no importance—and cold roast beef is just as good for you as hot.”
“If not a great deal better,” added Westby with an urbanity that set every one snickering.
After dinner Irving was again on duty for two hours in the dormitory, until the time for afternoon chapel. During part of this period the boys were expected to be in their rooms, preparing the Bible lesson which had to be recited after chapel to the rector. Irving madethe rounds and saw that each boy was in his proper quarters, then went to his own room. For an hour he enjoyed quiet. Then the bell rang announcing that the study period was at an end. Instantly there was a commotion in the corridors—legitimate enough; but soon it centred in the north wing and grew more and more clamorous, more and more mirthful.
With a sigh Irving went forth to quell it. He determined that whatever happened he would not this time lose his temper; he would try to be persuasive and yet firm.
The noise was in Allison’s room; the unfortunate Allison was again being persecuted. Loud whoops of laughter and the sound of vigorous scuffling, of tumbling chairs and pounding feet, came to Irving’s ears. The door to Allison’s room was wide open; Irving stood and looked upon a pile of bodies heaped on the bed, with struggling arms and legs; even in that moment the foot of the iron bedstead collapsed, and the pile rolled off upon the floor. There were Morrill and Carroll andWestby and Dennison and at the bottom Allison—all looking very much rumpled, very red.
“Oh, come, fellows!” said Irving in what he intended to make an appealing voice. “Less noise, less noise—or I shall really have to report you—I shall really!”
But he did not speak with any confidence; his manner was hesitating, almost deprecating. The boys grinned at him and then sauntered, rather indifferently, out of the room.
There was no more disorder that day. But some hours later, when Irving came up to the dormitory before supper, he heard laughter in the west wing, where Collingwood and Westby and Scarborough had their rooms. Then he heard Westby’s voice, raised in an effeminate, pleading tone: “Less noise, fellows, less noise—or I shall have to report you—I shall really!”
There was more laughter at the mimicry, and Irving heard Collingwood ask,
“Where did you get that, Wes?”
“Oh, from Kiddy—this afternoon.”
“Poor Kiddy! He seemed to be having an awful time at noon over that roast beef.”
“He’s such a dodo—he’s more fun than a goat. I can put him up in the air whenever I want to,” boasted Westby. “He’s the easiest to get rattled I ever saw. I’m going to play horse with him in class to-morrow.”
“How?” asked Collingwood; and Irving basely pricked up his ears.
“Oh, you’ll see.”
Irving closed the door of his room quietly. “We’ll see, will we?” he muttered, pacing back and forth. “Yes, I guess some one will see.”
TOC
The room in which the Sixth Form assembled for the lesson in Geometry was on the top floor of the Study building; the windows overlooked the pond behind the Gymnasium. The teacher’s desk was on a platform in the corner; a blackboard extended along two walls; and there were steps beneath the blackboard on which the students stood to make their demonstrations.
Irving arrived a minute before the hour and found his class already assembled—a suspicious circumstance. There was, too, he felt, an air of subdued, joyous expectancy. He took his seat and, adjusting his spectacles, peered round the room; his eyesight was very bad, and he had, moreover, like so many bookworms, never trained his faculty of observation.
He read the roll of the class; every boy was there.
“Scarborough, you may go to the blackboard and demonstrate the Fifth Theorem; Dennison, you the Sixth; Westby, you the Eighth. The rest of you will solve at your seats this problem.”
He mounted to the blackboard himself and wrote out the question. While he had his back turned, he heard some whispering; he looked over his shoulder. Westby was lingering in his seat and had obviously been holding communication with his neighbor.
“Westby,”—Irving’s voice was sharp,—“were you trying to get help at the last moment?”
“I was not.” Westby’s answer was prompt.
“Then don’t delay any longer, please; go to the blackboard at once.”
“Yes, sir.”
Westby moved to the blackboard on the side of the room—the one at right angles to that on which Irving and Scarborough were at work.
Irving finished his writing, dusted the chalk from his fingers, and returned to his seat. The boys before him were now bent industriously over their tablets; Scarborough, Westby, and Dennison were drawing figures on the blackboard, using the long pointers for rulers and making beautiful circles by means of chalk attached to pieces of string. A glance at Westby showed that youth apparently intent upon solving the problem assigned him and at work upon it intelligently. Irving began to feel serene; he proceeded to correct the algebra exercises of the Fourth Form, which he had received the hour before.
A sudden titter from some one down in front, hastily suppressed and transformed into a cough, caused him to look up. Morrill, with his mouth hidden behind his hand, was glancing off toward Westby, and Irving followed the direction of the glance.
Westby had completed his geometrical figures and was now engaged in labeling them with letters. But instead of employing the usual geometrical symbols A, B, C, and so on,he was skipping about through the alphabet, and Irving immediately perceived that he was not choosing letters at random. Irving observed that the initials of his own name, I, C, U, formed, as it were, the corner-stone of the geometrical edifice.
At that moment Westby coughed—an unnatural cough. And instantly a miracle happened; every single wooden eraser—there were half a dozen of them—leaped from its place on the shelf beneath the blackboard and tumbled clattering down the steps to the floor. At the same instant Westby flung up both arms, tottered on the topmost step, and succeeded in regaining his poise with apparently great difficulty.
The class giggled.
“Mr. Upton, sir! Mr. Upton, sir!” cried Westby excitedly. “Did you feel the earthquake? It was very noticeable on this side of the room. Do you think it’s safe for us to stay indoors, sir? There may be another shock!”
“Westby,” Irving’s voice had a nervous thrill that for the moment quieted the laughter, “did you cause those erasers to be pulled down?”
“Did I cause them to be pulled down? I don’t understand, sir. How could I, sir? Six of them all at once!”
“Bring me one of those erasers, please.”
Westby stooped; there was a sound of snapping string. Then he came forward and presented the eraser.
“You tied string to all these erasers, did you?” Irving examined the fragment that still clung to the object. “And then arranged to have them pulled down?”
“You see how short that string is, sir; nobody could have reached it to pull it. Didn’t you feel the earthquake, sir? Didn’t you see how it almost threw me off my feet? Really, I don’t believe it’s quite safe to stay here—”
“You may be right; I shouldn’t wonder at all if there was a second shock coming to you soon,” said Irving, and the subdued chuckle that went round the class told him he had scored. “You may now demonstrate to the class the Theorem assigned you.”
“Yes, sir.” Westby turned and took up the pointer.
“We have here,” he began, “the two triangles I C U and J A Y—with the angle I C U of the one equal to the angle J A Y of the other.” The class tittered; Westby went on glibly, bending the lath-like pointer between his hands: “Let us now erect the angle K I D, equal to the angle I C U; then the angle K I D will also be equal to the angle J A Y—things equal to the same thing are equal to each other.”
Westby stopped to turn a surprised, questioning look upon the snickering class.
“Yes, that will do for that demonstration,” said Irving. He rose from his seat; his lips were trembling, and the laughter of the class ceased. “You may leave the room—for your insolence—at once!”
He had meant to be dignified and calm, but his anger had rushed to the surface, and his words came in a voice that suggested he was on the verge of tears.
“I beg your pardon, sir, but I don’t think I quite understand,” said Westby suavely.
“You understand well enough. I ask you to leave the room.”
“I’m afraid, Mr. Upton, that my little pleasantries—usually considered harmless—do not commend themselves to you. But you hurt my feelings very much, sir, when you apply such a harsh word as insolence to my whimsical humor—”
“I’ll hold no argument with you,” cried Irving; in his excitement his voice rose thin and thrill. “Leave the room at once.”
Westby laid the pointer and the chalk on the shelf, blew the dust from his fingers, and walked towards his seat. Irving took a step forward; his face was white.
“What do you mean!—What do you mean! I told you to leave the room.”
Westby faced him with composure through which showed a sneer; for the first time the boy was displaying contempt; hitherto his attitude had been jocose and cajoling.
“I was going for my cap,” he said, and his eyes flashed scornfully. Then, regardless of the master’s look, he continued past the rowof his classmates, took up his cap, and retraced his steps towards the door. Irving stood watching him, with lips compressed in a stern line; the line thinned even more when he saw Westby bestow on his friends a droll, drooping wink of the left eyelid.
And then, while all the class sat in silence, Westby did an audacious thing—a thing that set every one except Irving off into a joyous titter. He went out of the door doing the sailor’s hornpipe,—right hand on stomach, left hand on back, left hand on stomach, right hand on back, and taking little skips as he alternated the position. And so, skipping merrily, he disappeared down the corridor.
Irving returned to his platform. His hands were trembling, and he felt weak. When he spoke, he hardly knew his own voice. But he struggled to control it, and said,—
“Scarborough, please go to the board and demonstrate your theorem.”
There was no more disorder in class that day; in fact, after Westby’s disappearance the boys were exceptionally well behaved.Slowly Irving recovered his composure, yet the ordeal left him feeling as if he wanted to shut himself up in his room and lie down. He knew that he had lost command of his temper; he regretted the manner in which he had stormed at Westby; but he thought nevertheless that the treatment had been effective and therefore not entirely to be deplored. The boys had thought him soft; he had shown them that he was not; and he determined that from this time forth he would bear down upon them hard. If by showing them amiability and kindliness he had failed to win their respect, he would now compel it by ferocity. He would henceforth show no quarter to any malefactor.
Walking up to his room, he fell in with Barclay, who was also returning from a class.
“What is the extreme penalty one can inflict on a boy who misbehaves?” he asked.
“For a single act?” asked Barclay.
“For one that’s a climax of others—insolence, disobedience, disorder—all heaped into one.”
Irving spoke hotly, and Barclay glanced at him with a sympathetic interest.
“Well,” said Barclay, “three sheets and six marks off in decorum is about the limit. After that happens to a boy two or three times, the rector is likely to take a hand.—If you don’t mind my saying it, though—in my opinion it’s a mistake to start in by being extreme.”
“In ordinary cases, perhaps.” Irving’s tone did not invite questioning, and he did not confide to Barclay what extraordinary case he had under consideration.
When he reached his room, he wrote out on a slip of paper, “Westby, insolence and disorder in class, three sheets,” and laid the paper on his desk. Then he undertook to correct the exercises in geometry which had been the fruit of the Sixth Form’s labors in the last hour; but after going through five or six of them, his mind wandered; it reverted uneasily to the thought of his future relations with those boys. He rose and paced about the room, and hardened his heart. He would bejust as strict and stern and severe with them all as he possibly could be. When he had them well trained, he might attempt to win their liking—if that seemed any longer worth having! It did not seem so to him now; all he wanted to know now was that he had awakened in them respect and fear.
Respect and fear—could he have inspired those, by his excitable shriekings in the class room, by his lack of self-control in dormitory and at the dinner table, by his incompetence when confronted with a roast of beef! Each incident that recurred to him was of a kind to bring with it the sting of mortification; his cheeks tingled. He must at least learn how to perform the simple duties expected of a master; he could not afford to continue giving exhibitions of ignorance and incompetence.
Moved by this impulse, he descended to the kitchen—precincts which he had never before entered and in which his appearance created at first some consternation. The cook, however, was obliging; and when he had confessedhimself the incapable one who had sent out the mutilated beef to be carved, she was most reassuring in her speech, and taking the cold remains of a similar cut from the ice chest, she gave him an object lesson. She demonstrated to him how he should begin the attack, how he might foil the bone that existed only to baffle, how slice after slice might fall beneath his sure and rapid slashes.
“I see,” said Irving, taking the knife and fork from her and making some imaginary passes. “The fork so—the knife so. And you will always be sure to have a sharp carving knife for me—very sharp?”
The cook smiled and promised, and he extravagantly left her contemplating a dollar bill.
Shortly after he had returned to his room the bell on the Study building rang, announcing the end of the morning session. There was half an hour before luncheon; soon the boys came tramping up the stairs and past Irving’s closed door. Soon also a racketing began in the corridors; Irving suspected anintention to bait him still further; it was probably Westby once again. He waited until the noise became too great to be ignored—shouting and battering and scuffling; then he went forth to quell it.
To his surprise Westby was not engaged in the disturbance—was, in fact, not visible. Collingwood, with his back turned, was in the act of hurling a football to the farther end of the corridor, where Scarborough and Morrill and Dennison were gathered. The forward pass was new in football this year, and although the playing season had not yet begun, Irving had already seen fellows practicing for it, in front of the Study and behind the dormitory. Collingwood, he knew, was captain of the school football eleven, and naturally had all the latest developments of the game, such as the forward pass, very much on his mind. Still that was no excuse for playing football in the corridor.
Morrill had caught the ball, and as Irving approached, undertook to return it. But it ricochetted against the wall and bounced downat Collingwood’s feet. Collingwood seized it and was poising it in his hand for another throw when Irving spoke behind him—sharply, for he was mindful of his resolve to be severe:—
“No more of that, Collingwood.”
The boy turned eagerly and said,—
“Oh, Mr. Upton, I’m just getting on to how to do it. Here, let me show you. You take it this way, along the lacings—the trouble is, my hand’s not quite long enough to get a good grip—and then you take it like this—”
“Yes,” said Irving coldly; he had an idea that Collingwood had adopted Westby’s method and was engaged in chaffing him. “You needn’t show me.”
And he turned abruptly and went into his room, closing the door behind him.
Collingwood stood, looking round over his shoulder after Irving and holding the ball out in the arrested attitude of one about to throw. On his face was an expression of utter amazement, which rapidly gave place to indignation.Collingwood had a temper, and sometimes—even when he was not on the football field—it flared up.
“Of all the chumps!” he muttered; and he turned, and poising the ball again, flung it with all his strength at the master’s door. It went straight to the mark, crashed against the upper panel with a tremendous bang, and rebounded to Collingwood’s feet.
Irving opened the door and came out with a leap.
“Collingwood,” he cried, and his voice was quivering as it had quivered that morning in class, “did you throw that ball?”
“I did,” said Collingwood.
“Very well. I shall report you. I will have no more of this insolence.”
He swung round and shut himself again in his room. The fellows at the other end of the corridor had stood aghast; now they came hurrying up. Collingwood was laughing.
“Kiddy’s getting to be a regular lion,” he said, and when Morrill and Dennison were forexpressing their indignation, he only laughed the more.
It was not very pleasant for Irving at luncheon. Westby gave him an amused glance when he came in—more amused than hostile—and Irving preserved his dignity by returning an unflinching look. Westby made no further overtures for a while; the other boys chattered among themselves, about football and tennis, and Irving sat silent at the head of the table. At last, however, Westby turned to him.
“Mr. Upton,” said Westby deferentially, “how would you explain this? There’s a dog, and he must be doing one of two things; either he’s running or he’s not running. If he’s not doing the one, he is doing the other, isn’t he?”
“I suppose so,” said Irving.
“Well, he’s not running. Therefore—he is running. How do you explain that, Mr. Upton?”
Irving smiled feebly; the other boys were thinking it over with puzzled faces.
“That’s an old quibble,” said Irving. “Thealternative for running is not running. Therefore when he’s not running—he’snotrunning.”
“I don’t see that that explains it,” answered Westby. “That’s just making a statement—but it isn’t logic.”
“He’s not running is the negative of he’s running; he’s not not-running is the negative of he’s not running—”
“Then,” said Westby, “how fast must a dog travel that is not not-running to catch a dog that is not exactly running but only perhaps?”
The boys laughed; Irving retorted, “That’s a problem that you might work out on the blackboard sometime.”
Thereupon Westby became silent, and Irving more than half repented of his speech; he knew that in its reference it had been ill-natured.
He noticed later in the day when he went up to the dormitory that the boys tiptoed about the corridors and conversed in whispers; there was an extravagant air of quiet. When they went down to supper, they tiptoed past Irving’sroom in single file, saying in unison, “Sh! Sh! Sh!” They all joined in this procession—from Collingwood to Allison. Irving felt that he had taken Allison’s place as the laughing-stock, the butt of the dormitory.
In the evening they came to bid him good-night—not straggling up as they usually did, but in a delegation, expectant and amused. Westby and Collingwood were in the van when Irving opened his door in response to the knock.
“We didn’t know whether you’d shake hands with two such reprobates or not,” said Westby. “We thought it wasn’t quite safe to come up alone—so we’ve brought a bodyguard.”
Irving did not smile, though, all the boys were grinning. He shook hands formally with Collingwood, then with Westby, then with the others, saying good-night to each; as they left him, they tiptoed to their rooms. He thought grimly that, whatever might be the sentiments entertained towards him, he would not long be living in an atmosphere of ridicule.
Irving had charge of the “big study,” as it was called, during the hour immediately after morning chapel. The boys filed in from chapel and seated themselves at their desks; the members of the Sixth Form, who were privileged to study in their rooms and therefore had no desks in the schoolroom, occupied the stalls along the wall under the big clock. Last of all the rector entered and, mounting the platform, read the “reports” for the day—that is, the names of those who had transgressed and the penalties imposed. After the reading, the Sixth Form went upstairs to their Latin class with Mr. Barclay, and the day’s work began.
On the morning following his encounters with Westby and with Collingwood, Irving as usual took charge of the Study. The boys assembled; Irving rang the bell, reducing them to quiet; Dr. Davenport came in, mounted the platform, and took up the report book—in which Irving had just finished transcribing his entries.
Dr. Davenport began reading in his clear, emphatic voice, “Out of bounds, Mason, Sterrett, Coyle, one sheet; late to study, Hart, McQuiston, Durfee, Stratton, Kane, half a sheet; tardy to breakfast—” and so on. None of the offenses were very serious; and the rector read them out rapidly. But at last he paused a moment; and then, looking up from the book, he said, with grave distinctness, “Disorderly in class and insolent, Westby, three sheets; disorderly in dormitory and insolent, Collingwood, three sheets.”
He closed the book; a stir, a thrill of interest, ran round the room. For a Sixth Former to be charged with such offenses and condemned to such punishment was rare: for Collingwood, who was in a sense the leader of the school, to be so charged and punished was unprecedented.
Collingwood, sitting directly under the clock, and facing so many curious questioning eyes, turned red; Westby, standing by the door, looked at him and smiled. At the same time, Dr. Davenport, closing the report-book, leaned towards Irving and said quietly in his ear,—
“Mr. Upton, I should like to see you about those last two reports—immediately after this study hour.”
Irving reddened; the rector’s manner was not approving.
Dr. Davenport descended from the platform and walked slowly down the aisle. As he approached, he looked straight at Westby; and Westby returned the look steadily—as if he was ashamed of nothing.
The rector passed through the doorway; the Sixth Form followed; the day’s work began.