“Why, the fellows are all broken up,” said Reeves. “We were going to have a big celebration to-night, but that’s all off. There isn’t one of us feels like celebrating.”
“How could we?” added Blake. “It was Remington won the game. But it’s the first time in the history of Lawrenceville that we didn’t have a blow-out after whipping the freshmen.”
“Maybe it’s not so bad,” said Sexton, with an attempt at cheerfulness. “He’ll be coming back before long,—as soon as his father gets well, you know,—and we’ll have the celebration then.”
But Tommy heard little of all this. His thoughts were far away. He saw again the narrow valley, which seemed to shut out all the joy and warm, aspiring life of the outside world; the rows of squalid cabins, grimy with the dust of the mines; the bent, exhausted, perspiring men, laboring day after day far within the bowels of the earth, away from the pure air and the bright sunshine, able to earn but a bare livelihood, even by unceasing toil; and a shiver ran through him at the thought that it was to this he was returning. An hour ago the old existence had seemed so far away, there had been so much to live for, the path before him had seemed so bright; and here it was closing in upon him like a great black thundercloud which there was no evading.
Presently the head-master himself came in and told Tommy to pack up such clothing as he might need, and he would be driven over to Trenton at once to catch the six-o’clock train, which would get him to Wentworth early the next morning. The packing was soon done, and he went down to the buggy which was waiting. As he came out from the dormitory, he saw a sight which first made him stare in astonishment, and then brought a swift rush of tears to his eyes. The boys—all of them, first, second, third, and fourth year alike—were lined up along the path, and as he passed them, each gave him a hearty handclasp. Some even ventured upon a word of sympathy, awkwardly and shyly said, but none the less genuine. Tommy quite broke down before he reached the end of the line, and the tears were streaming down his face unrestrained as he clambered into the buggy. As the horse turned into the road, he glanced back and saw the fellows still standing there looking after him. In after days, when he thought of those first months at Lawrenceville, this parting scene was dearest of all to him.
It was only when he was in the train speeding southward, with no one to watch him or speak to him, that he dared put the future plainly before him. It was evident that if his father was killed, or so seriously injured that he could not go to work again in the mines, some arrangement must be made to provide for his mother and brother. He knew too well how little chance there was that his father had been able to save anything. Something, then, would have to be done at once. But what? He shrank from the answer that first occurred to him. He turned his face from it, and set his brain to work to find another way. But he was soon stumbling blindly among the intricacies of his own thoughts, and finally fell into a troubled sleep. But on the instant his eyes closed, as it seemed to him, some disturbing and terrible vision would dance before him and startle him awake again.
At Washington he had a half-hour wait, and looked for Jim, the train-caller who had befriended him before, but he saw nothing of him, for that official worked only in the daytime. Yet he no longer felt ignorant and dependent. The crowd—which even at midnight throngs the station at Washington—did not astonish him as it had before. He knew, somehow, that he was quite a different boy from the one who had made this same journey only three short months before. He felt quite able to look out for himself. But as he was clambering up the steps to his train, a cheery voice greeted him.
“Why, hello, youngster!” it said. “Going back home again?”
Tommy looked up and recognized his old friend the conductor.
“Yes, sir; back home,” he answered with a queer lump in his throat.