CHAPTER XFLIGHT

CHAPTER XFLIGHTWhen Jack left the house he hesitated a moment at the little gate. Then he turned to the left and hurried to Murdoch Street and down that to the railroad track. He was taking the longest route to the station; but, since his main desire was to avoid meeting any one he knew, it was also the safest. His battered valise, although by no means full, soon grew heavy and began to bump against his legs at every stride. When he reached the track, what with the aggravating behavior of the valise and the difficulty of walking over the uneven ties, speed was no longer possible. He had barely reached the Washington Street crossing when a whistle down the track behind him brought consternation. It was the 9.22 train, he told himself; and he knew that if he missed that he would have to wait a whole hour at the station before he could get another—an hour which might serve to bringAnthony upon him with a wealth of unanswerable argument in favor of his return.So, after a quick glance over his shoulder in the direction of the warning blast, he shifted the valise again and set out over the ties at a run. Once he stumbled and the bag went hurtling down the bank and brought up against a board fence. When he had recovered it and had scrambled back to the track the train was but a few hundred yards away. But the station was almost gained now. He retired to a hand-car siding while the engine and its three cars whizzed past him with much grinding of brakes, and then ran on in the wake of dust.There was no time to buy a ticket. When he reached the platform and the last car, the conductor had already swung his hand to the engineer. Jack pushed his valise on to the car-steps and crawled, breathless, after it. Then the train moved again, and a minute later Centerport was lost to sight. Jack, huddled upon the rear platform, saw it disappear with mingled emotions. Regret was prominent. He wondered at this. Surely, he thought, he had been miserable enough at Erskine to make the parting anything but regretful. And yet, even as he thought that, the idea of leaving the train at the next station and walking back came to him with strange attractiveness.Anthony would be glad; none else would know that he had contemplated flight; he would go back to the training-table, secure a place on the nine, and do great things—things that would make the college proud of him. And Gilberth might——But at the recollection of Gilberth the plan lost its attractiveness. Jack gritted his teeth and shook his fist toward where the tower of College Hall was still just visible above the tree-tops. Then, having recovered his breath, he took up his bag and passed into the car. It proved to be the smoker and was almost deserted. He selected a seat on the riverside, placed his valise beside him, and gave himself up to his thoughts. These were not cheerful. He wondered what his father and mother would say to his return. As for the latter, he could count with certainty upon her sympathy and support. But his father was different. He was a man with a stern conscience, and one singularly devoid of the finer sensibilities. For him the path of duty was always clearly defined and he trod it unswervingly, no matter what might befall. And, as Jack well knew, he looked for and demanded the same moral courage from others that he himself displayed. No, there would be no sympathy forthcoming from his father. Jack could almost hear him now:“You had done no wrong, my son. With a clear conscience you had nothing to fear. The wrong was in running away.”He might, thought Jack, even insist upon his returning. But that he would not do. He would find work and, as soon as possible, would pay back to his father the money wasted upon him at Erskine. He had intended becoming a teacher. But now that was impossible. Perhaps he could get employment from Billy Cromwell. But, whatever happened, he would not, having once reached home, go back to Erskine!Had Jack been less busy with his thoughts he might, perchance, have taken notice of a passenger who sat across the car and a little to the rear. He was a man of about forty years, with small, clearly cut features, brown eyes, and carefully trimmed mustache and beard. His attire was notably neat. In his mouth was a cigar, in his hands a morning paper, and at his feet a handsome suit-case. Ever since Jack’s advent he had been watching him over the top of his paper with a puzzled frown. The boy’s face, seen against the white light of the car window, expressed every passing emotion, and the passenger across the aisle, who was a good reader of expressions, felt a stirring of sympathy at the pervading look of despondency he saw.Presently the conductor entered, and Jack rememberedthat he must pay his fare. He felt for the little roll of money that was to take him home, first in his vest pocket, then in his trousers. Then, while an expression of bewilderment came over his face, he searched hurriedly in every pocket he possessed. The conductor came and waited patiently. Jack seized his valise and began to unstrap it. Then he paused and glanced uneasily at the conductor.“I can’t find my money,” he said. “If you’ll just give me a minute or two—” The other nodded and passed on down the car. Jack opened the valise and feverishly searched it. But when it was thoroughly upset he was forced to acknowledge with a sinking heart that the money was not there. He had taken it out of the trunk; he remembered doing that perfectly; he had meant to put it into his vest pocket. But it was not there.He stared blankly out of the window, still searching his clothes hopelessly. Well, he was not going home after all. Fate had intervened. Disappointed and chagrined, he counted the few coins in his trouser’s pocket and found that while they would pay his way to the next station they would not serve to take him back to Centerport. He blinked his eyes to keep back the tears. Tears, he reflected miserably, were always trying to crawl out nowadays. And then—“What’s wrong, Weatherby?”asked a voice over his shoulder, and Jack looked up with startled eyes into the face of Professor White.“What’s wrong, Weatherby?”“What’s wrong, Weatherby?”For a moment his surprise kept him silent. And in that moment he saw in the professor’s face a kindliness that he had never before noticed. The professor’s brown eyes were plainly sympathetic and the professor’s lips held a little reassuring smile at their corners. And Jack, wondering more, found his tongue.“Well, that is hard luck,” said the professor when he had heard the story. “And you’re going home, you say? How much money will it take?”“About ten dollars,” answered Jack. The other shook his head.“That’s not much,” he replied, “but I’m sorry to say that it’s more than I’ve got with me. You see, I’m only going to Hampden, three stations up the line, and so didn’t bring much. But wouldn’t it do if you got off at the next station and went back and got your money? Would the delay matter? How long leave have you got?”The conductor came back and smiled questioningly at the pair. Jack shook his head.“I’ve got to go on,” he muttered.“Well, here now, I’ll pay your way to Hampden,anyhow. That will give us time to consider things. Here you are, conductor.”When the change had been made and the professor was in possession of an elaborate rebate slip, the conductor went off and the professor removed Jack’s valise from the seat and sat down at the boy’s side.“How long are you going to be gone?” he asked pleasantly.Jack hesitated. Then—“I’m not coming back,” he answered defiantly.“What? Leaving college?”Jack nodded.“Why, how’s that? What’s the trouble?” questioned the professor kindly. “Nothing wrong at home, I hope?”“No, sir.”“Then what is it?”Jack was silent, looking scowlingly out of the window at the flying landscape of freshly green hills and meadows with an occasional glimpse of the sparkling river. He would accept the other’s help as far as Hampden, he decided; from there he would work his way home somehow; perhaps he could steal a ride now and then on the trains.“You don’t want to tell me, I see,” said Professor White. “And I dare say that’s natural, Weatherby.You and I have had a couple of unpleasant conversations, and I suppose the experience doesn’t recommend me as a confident. But you’re in some sort of trouble and I think you’d better make a clean breast of it and let me help you if I can.“And while we’re speaking of former encounters, Weatherby, I want to tell you that I made a mistake that day down at the coal wharf. I’ve got lots of faults, and one of the worst of them is an inclination to judge hastily. I accused you of cowardice that day, and I’ve regretted it very often since. I can understand how it might be possible for you to have hesitated about going into the river and yet not be guilty of cowardice in the strict sense. You see, I’ve given some thought to the matter, after it was a bit too late. I’ve been watching you since that day, and I think I made a mistake; I’m certain I did. And I want you to forgive me for the injustice I did you and for the hurt I inflicted. Will you?”“It doesn’t matter,” answered Jack drearily. “You only said what all the others thought. I guess it did hurt, but I don’t mind now; you see, there’s been a lot worse since then.”“Ah!” said the other comprehendingly. “I understand. Don’t you think you might tell me something about it, Weatherby?”And after a doubtful glance at the professor’s face, in which he read only sympathy, Jack told him. He spoke bitterly, giving free rein to the pent-up anger and indignation of the past month; and, perhaps, he may be forgiven if unconsciously he exaggerated the tale of his troubles. When he had finished Professor White nodded gravely, and then, after a momentary silence, asked:“How old are you, Weatherby?”“Seventeen. I’ll be eighteen in July.”“Well, I’m not going to tell you that the thing is trivial, nor that were you older it would appear less tragic. Nothing is trivial that influences our lives, no matter how small it looks; and it is just the things that happen to us when we are young and receptive that are most important. I said I would help you if I could, and I’m going to. But in order to do it I must first convince you that I am your friend, and I fear that’s going to be difficult. And,” he added, as the train slowed down for the second station, “what’s more, I haven’t much time to do it.”“Friends,” said Jack sagely, “always advise you to do things you don’t want to.”“Yes, I guess that’s so,” answered the professor, smiling. “And I think what I’m going to advise will prove me your friend.”Jack watched the coming and going on the station platform for a minute, then, as the train began to move again, he asked:“Would you mind telling me—what it is, sir?”“No; it’s this.” He laid a hand on the boy’s shoulder and spoke earnestly. “Come back, Weatherby, and have another try. Wait,” he continued, as the other started to speak, “let me finish first. I’m not going to belittle your trouble; it’s a big one and it’s hard to bear. But you’ve borne it for a month and more. You can bear it longer, if you try. Make up your mind to it and you’ll do it. From what I can see, Weatherby, you’ve given up the fight just on the verge of victory. A while back you had the whole college against you; now there is but one fellow actively opposed to you. From what you have told me I can see that Tidball believes in you, and Perkins, and King. They are all men of prominence and their views have weight. Hold on a little while longer and you’ll find that the college has come around to their way of thinking. If you give up now you’re losing a year of your life that you can’t catch up with again if you live to be a hundred. Stick it out and you’re a year nearer your degree. Besides, there are your parents, Weatherby; what are they going to think about it? Maybe they’ll say you’ve done right in leaving, but down intheir hearts they are going to be disappointed over this wasted year.”Jack stared dumbly at his hands, and presently the other went on.“Come back, and I’ll do everything I can to help you, my boy. Just what that will be or what it will amount to, I can’t say at this moment; but what assistance I can give you may be certain of having. You won’t find it an empty promise.”He paused, and Jack looked up.“I wish I’d—wish I might have talked to you before,” he said.“So do I, Weatherby; but it isn’t too late now. I have a suspicion that you’ve come away without signing off. You needn’t tell me whether I’m right or wrong. But you may rest assured that there’ll be no trouble about it. To-morrow you and I’ll go back together and try it over.”“But what—where am I going to go now?” asked Jack dismally.“Why, you’ll come home with me, of course,” replied the professor. “No one need ever know but that you and I came off together. We’ll have to take a pretty early train back in the morning, but I guess you won’t mind that. My mother and sister will be very glad to see you, and— Hello,here we are! Grab your bag, Weatherby, and come along.”“But—” stammered the boy.“All right; you can tell me about that when you get outside. Besides,” he laughed, “you’ve got to get off here, anyhow; your fare is only paid this far. Hurry up, or we’ll both get left!”A moment later Jack found himself out on a sunny platform, dodging a baggage-truck and following his hurrying guide through the throng.

When Jack left the house he hesitated a moment at the little gate. Then he turned to the left and hurried to Murdoch Street and down that to the railroad track. He was taking the longest route to the station; but, since his main desire was to avoid meeting any one he knew, it was also the safest. His battered valise, although by no means full, soon grew heavy and began to bump against his legs at every stride. When he reached the track, what with the aggravating behavior of the valise and the difficulty of walking over the uneven ties, speed was no longer possible. He had barely reached the Washington Street crossing when a whistle down the track behind him brought consternation. It was the 9.22 train, he told himself; and he knew that if he missed that he would have to wait a whole hour at the station before he could get another—an hour which might serve to bringAnthony upon him with a wealth of unanswerable argument in favor of his return.

So, after a quick glance over his shoulder in the direction of the warning blast, he shifted the valise again and set out over the ties at a run. Once he stumbled and the bag went hurtling down the bank and brought up against a board fence. When he had recovered it and had scrambled back to the track the train was but a few hundred yards away. But the station was almost gained now. He retired to a hand-car siding while the engine and its three cars whizzed past him with much grinding of brakes, and then ran on in the wake of dust.

There was no time to buy a ticket. When he reached the platform and the last car, the conductor had already swung his hand to the engineer. Jack pushed his valise on to the car-steps and crawled, breathless, after it. Then the train moved again, and a minute later Centerport was lost to sight. Jack, huddled upon the rear platform, saw it disappear with mingled emotions. Regret was prominent. He wondered at this. Surely, he thought, he had been miserable enough at Erskine to make the parting anything but regretful. And yet, even as he thought that, the idea of leaving the train at the next station and walking back came to him with strange attractiveness.Anthony would be glad; none else would know that he had contemplated flight; he would go back to the training-table, secure a place on the nine, and do great things—things that would make the college proud of him. And Gilberth might——

But at the recollection of Gilberth the plan lost its attractiveness. Jack gritted his teeth and shook his fist toward where the tower of College Hall was still just visible above the tree-tops. Then, having recovered his breath, he took up his bag and passed into the car. It proved to be the smoker and was almost deserted. He selected a seat on the riverside, placed his valise beside him, and gave himself up to his thoughts. These were not cheerful. He wondered what his father and mother would say to his return. As for the latter, he could count with certainty upon her sympathy and support. But his father was different. He was a man with a stern conscience, and one singularly devoid of the finer sensibilities. For him the path of duty was always clearly defined and he trod it unswervingly, no matter what might befall. And, as Jack well knew, he looked for and demanded the same moral courage from others that he himself displayed. No, there would be no sympathy forthcoming from his father. Jack could almost hear him now:

“You had done no wrong, my son. With a clear conscience you had nothing to fear. The wrong was in running away.”

He might, thought Jack, even insist upon his returning. But that he would not do. He would find work and, as soon as possible, would pay back to his father the money wasted upon him at Erskine. He had intended becoming a teacher. But now that was impossible. Perhaps he could get employment from Billy Cromwell. But, whatever happened, he would not, having once reached home, go back to Erskine!

Had Jack been less busy with his thoughts he might, perchance, have taken notice of a passenger who sat across the car and a little to the rear. He was a man of about forty years, with small, clearly cut features, brown eyes, and carefully trimmed mustache and beard. His attire was notably neat. In his mouth was a cigar, in his hands a morning paper, and at his feet a handsome suit-case. Ever since Jack’s advent he had been watching him over the top of his paper with a puzzled frown. The boy’s face, seen against the white light of the car window, expressed every passing emotion, and the passenger across the aisle, who was a good reader of expressions, felt a stirring of sympathy at the pervading look of despondency he saw.

Presently the conductor entered, and Jack rememberedthat he must pay his fare. He felt for the little roll of money that was to take him home, first in his vest pocket, then in his trousers. Then, while an expression of bewilderment came over his face, he searched hurriedly in every pocket he possessed. The conductor came and waited patiently. Jack seized his valise and began to unstrap it. Then he paused and glanced uneasily at the conductor.

“I can’t find my money,” he said. “If you’ll just give me a minute or two—” The other nodded and passed on down the car. Jack opened the valise and feverishly searched it. But when it was thoroughly upset he was forced to acknowledge with a sinking heart that the money was not there. He had taken it out of the trunk; he remembered doing that perfectly; he had meant to put it into his vest pocket. But it was not there.

He stared blankly out of the window, still searching his clothes hopelessly. Well, he was not going home after all. Fate had intervened. Disappointed and chagrined, he counted the few coins in his trouser’s pocket and found that while they would pay his way to the next station they would not serve to take him back to Centerport. He blinked his eyes to keep back the tears. Tears, he reflected miserably, were always trying to crawl out nowadays. And then—

“What’s wrong, Weatherby?”asked a voice over his shoulder, and Jack looked up with startled eyes into the face of Professor White.

“What’s wrong, Weatherby?”“What’s wrong, Weatherby?”

“What’s wrong, Weatherby?”

For a moment his surprise kept him silent. And in that moment he saw in the professor’s face a kindliness that he had never before noticed. The professor’s brown eyes were plainly sympathetic and the professor’s lips held a little reassuring smile at their corners. And Jack, wondering more, found his tongue.

“Well, that is hard luck,” said the professor when he had heard the story. “And you’re going home, you say? How much money will it take?”

“About ten dollars,” answered Jack. The other shook his head.

“That’s not much,” he replied, “but I’m sorry to say that it’s more than I’ve got with me. You see, I’m only going to Hampden, three stations up the line, and so didn’t bring much. But wouldn’t it do if you got off at the next station and went back and got your money? Would the delay matter? How long leave have you got?”

The conductor came back and smiled questioningly at the pair. Jack shook his head.

“I’ve got to go on,” he muttered.

“Well, here now, I’ll pay your way to Hampden,anyhow. That will give us time to consider things. Here you are, conductor.”

When the change had been made and the professor was in possession of an elaborate rebate slip, the conductor went off and the professor removed Jack’s valise from the seat and sat down at the boy’s side.

“How long are you going to be gone?” he asked pleasantly.

Jack hesitated. Then—

“I’m not coming back,” he answered defiantly.

“What? Leaving college?”

Jack nodded.

“Why, how’s that? What’s the trouble?” questioned the professor kindly. “Nothing wrong at home, I hope?”

“No, sir.”

“Then what is it?”

Jack was silent, looking scowlingly out of the window at the flying landscape of freshly green hills and meadows with an occasional glimpse of the sparkling river. He would accept the other’s help as far as Hampden, he decided; from there he would work his way home somehow; perhaps he could steal a ride now and then on the trains.

“You don’t want to tell me, I see,” said Professor White. “And I dare say that’s natural, Weatherby.You and I have had a couple of unpleasant conversations, and I suppose the experience doesn’t recommend me as a confident. But you’re in some sort of trouble and I think you’d better make a clean breast of it and let me help you if I can.

“And while we’re speaking of former encounters, Weatherby, I want to tell you that I made a mistake that day down at the coal wharf. I’ve got lots of faults, and one of the worst of them is an inclination to judge hastily. I accused you of cowardice that day, and I’ve regretted it very often since. I can understand how it might be possible for you to have hesitated about going into the river and yet not be guilty of cowardice in the strict sense. You see, I’ve given some thought to the matter, after it was a bit too late. I’ve been watching you since that day, and I think I made a mistake; I’m certain I did. And I want you to forgive me for the injustice I did you and for the hurt I inflicted. Will you?”

“It doesn’t matter,” answered Jack drearily. “You only said what all the others thought. I guess it did hurt, but I don’t mind now; you see, there’s been a lot worse since then.”

“Ah!” said the other comprehendingly. “I understand. Don’t you think you might tell me something about it, Weatherby?”

And after a doubtful glance at the professor’s face, in which he read only sympathy, Jack told him. He spoke bitterly, giving free rein to the pent-up anger and indignation of the past month; and, perhaps, he may be forgiven if unconsciously he exaggerated the tale of his troubles. When he had finished Professor White nodded gravely, and then, after a momentary silence, asked:

“How old are you, Weatherby?”

“Seventeen. I’ll be eighteen in July.”

“Well, I’m not going to tell you that the thing is trivial, nor that were you older it would appear less tragic. Nothing is trivial that influences our lives, no matter how small it looks; and it is just the things that happen to us when we are young and receptive that are most important. I said I would help you if I could, and I’m going to. But in order to do it I must first convince you that I am your friend, and I fear that’s going to be difficult. And,” he added, as the train slowed down for the second station, “what’s more, I haven’t much time to do it.”

“Friends,” said Jack sagely, “always advise you to do things you don’t want to.”

“Yes, I guess that’s so,” answered the professor, smiling. “And I think what I’m going to advise will prove me your friend.”

Jack watched the coming and going on the station platform for a minute, then, as the train began to move again, he asked:

“Would you mind telling me—what it is, sir?”

“No; it’s this.” He laid a hand on the boy’s shoulder and spoke earnestly. “Come back, Weatherby, and have another try. Wait,” he continued, as the other started to speak, “let me finish first. I’m not going to belittle your trouble; it’s a big one and it’s hard to bear. But you’ve borne it for a month and more. You can bear it longer, if you try. Make up your mind to it and you’ll do it. From what I can see, Weatherby, you’ve given up the fight just on the verge of victory. A while back you had the whole college against you; now there is but one fellow actively opposed to you. From what you have told me I can see that Tidball believes in you, and Perkins, and King. They are all men of prominence and their views have weight. Hold on a little while longer and you’ll find that the college has come around to their way of thinking. If you give up now you’re losing a year of your life that you can’t catch up with again if you live to be a hundred. Stick it out and you’re a year nearer your degree. Besides, there are your parents, Weatherby; what are they going to think about it? Maybe they’ll say you’ve done right in leaving, but down intheir hearts they are going to be disappointed over this wasted year.”

Jack stared dumbly at his hands, and presently the other went on.

“Come back, and I’ll do everything I can to help you, my boy. Just what that will be or what it will amount to, I can’t say at this moment; but what assistance I can give you may be certain of having. You won’t find it an empty promise.”

He paused, and Jack looked up.

“I wish I’d—wish I might have talked to you before,” he said.

“So do I, Weatherby; but it isn’t too late now. I have a suspicion that you’ve come away without signing off. You needn’t tell me whether I’m right or wrong. But you may rest assured that there’ll be no trouble about it. To-morrow you and I’ll go back together and try it over.”

“But what—where am I going to go now?” asked Jack dismally.

“Why, you’ll come home with me, of course,” replied the professor. “No one need ever know but that you and I came off together. We’ll have to take a pretty early train back in the morning, but I guess you won’t mind that. My mother and sister will be very glad to see you, and— Hello,here we are! Grab your bag, Weatherby, and come along.”

“But—” stammered the boy.

“All right; you can tell me about that when you get outside. Besides,” he laughed, “you’ve got to get off here, anyhow; your fare is only paid this far. Hurry up, or we’ll both get left!”

A moment later Jack found himself out on a sunny platform, dodging a baggage-truck and following his hurrying guide through the throng.

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