“You tell him that,” responded Uncle Israel. Then he took up a newspaper, settled his spectacles on the bridge of his big nose, and edged his chair to the light. The subject was closed. Tom recognised the fact and, stifling a sigh, found his Latin book and took himself off to study. Monday loomed up startlingly near.

[CHAPTER IV]
AT CUMMINGS AND WRIGHT’S

Amesville was a city of some twenty-five thousand population, and on a certain Monday in late September of the year 1911 it increased its population, to our certain knowledge, by one. That one was Mr. Thomas Pollock, who stepped off the milk train at a quarter-past six and staggered across the dust-strewn road to Mrs. Cleary’s lodging-house, burdened with a valise whose bulging sides would certainly have strained the lock to the breaking point without the straps that encircled them. He spent the better part of an hour in unpacking and distributing his possessions. He was not over-supplied with clothes, which, in view of the scanty accommodations provided for such things, was fortunate; but it nevertheless took him quite a while to arrange the contents of the big valise to his satisfaction. There was a small table in one corner of the room and a bureau near the window. A washstand, a single iron bed, and a straight-backed chair completed the furnishings, if we except a very thin and gaudy carpet which tried but failed to quite cover the uneven floor. Tom stowed his clothes neatly in the bureau drawers—there was no closet, but a board holding four hooks was nailed to the inner side of the door—put his extra pair of shoes under the table, and arranged a few treasures on table and bureau. These included a faded photograph of his father—he had never had one of his mother,—one of Aunt Patty taken at the State Fair some ten years ago, and one of Star. Star’s likeness had been made by a travelling photographer to whom Tom had paid the sum of fifty cents. But it was a good picture and worth the money. If only Star had kept his tail still no possible fault could have been found with it. The treasures also included a pair of skates, an old-fashioned travelling portfolio which had belonged to his father and which held an ink-well and compartments for paper, envelopes, pens, holders, stamps, and a blotter. Tom was very fond of that portfolio and dreamed of some day making a real journey and pictured himself sitting in a Pullman car or on the deck of a steamer with it on his knee writing long letters to Uncle Israel and Aunt Patty. Not to Star, of course, for Star would be right there with him! There were other things, too; a much battered baseball which showed the imprints of a dog’s teeth, a coloured picture showing the landing of Columbus, a sweet-grass basket, the Christmas gift of Aunt Patty, holding several disfigured pennies, a postage stamp lacking mucilage, some buttons, a stone arrow-head which Tom had himself unearthed on the farm, and a soiled piece of slippery-elm. There was also a little shiny red-lacquered box with a spray of bamboo in gilt on the cover which held Tom’s jewelry. This box, however, had been safely stowed under a pile of underwear in the second bureau drawer and contained a tiny plain gold ring which was supposed to have been his mother’s wedding ring, although Tom had absolutely no proof of that, a pair of silver cuff-links, a silver scarf-pin set with an imitation ruby, and three gold-plated shirt studs.

At half-past seven Tom locked his room door, dropped the key proudly in his pocket, and went in search of breakfast. Aunt Patty had provided him with coffee and doughnuts at twenty minutes to five that morning, but he felt the need of something more lasting. It was not hard to find an eating place, for there were three small and rather dirty restaurants on his own street. In the hope of finding cheap prices he invaded one of them and ordered corned-beef hash, a boiled egg, and a glass of milk. The price was not exorbitant, but the hash was greasy and tasteless, the egg was far from fresh, and the milk was a base libel on that noble animal, the cow! But the viands served and Tom consoled himself with the thought that he had paid ten cents less than a similar repast would have cost him on Main Street. There remained a whole half-hour before school began and he set out to see the town. Thus far he had discovered only the business portion of it. Now he turned his steps toward the residential streets and loitered along past prosperous-looking houses which, to Tom at least, might well have been the abodes of so many multi-millionaires. Later, when he chanced upon the abodes of the city’s really wealthy residents, he discovered his mistake. But now he mentally peopled the houses with Vanderbilts and Goulds and Rockefellers and unenviously admired the smooth green lawns and vivid flower borders and resplendent doorways and felt very grateful that he was to live in a place where there were so many beautiful things.

Then, at last, the high-school building loomed up ahead, set squarely in its open plot of lawn and gravelled walks, a handsome great structure of mottled brick and sandstone trimmings. Already the boys’ entrance was well sprinkled with youths, while more were approaching the building from all directions. Tom, feeling a little shy, edged his way up the broad steps and into the building. But none of the others took special notice of him and he reached the Principal’s office and joined a line already waiting. The big hallway with its plaster statuary and tiled floor was quite impressive as, also, were the classrooms which he glimpsed. He couldn’t help comparing it all with the little one-room frame schoolhouse at Derry! And he was more than a little anxious and nervous as he awaited his turn.

But many things are far worse in anticipation than in realisation, and Tom’s first day at high school passed smoothly and without misadventure. He was assigned to a room and a desk, given a list of books and supplies to provide himself with, marched with many others up two flights of broad stairs and went through a calisthenic drill, studied awhile, and was finally released for the day, there being but the one session.

With a light heart he set out for a stationery store and purchased tablets, blank-books, pencils, erasers, and all the other articles required. The school books he could rent, which meant a big saving to his pocket. He dined well, if inexpensively, and at two o’clock made his way to Cummings and Wright’s. Neither of the partners was in, and it fell to the lot of Mr. Joseph Gillig to receive him. Joe Gillig was the single clerk in the employ; Miss Miller, who lived behind a glass partition, was a cashier and bookkeeper, which, as Tom learned later, is quite different from being a clerk. Joe was about twenty years of age, tall, thin, with a long neck in which his Adam’s apple did marvellous things as he talked. Joe had a good-natured, homely countenance lighted by a pair of nice, if somewhat sleepy, brown eyes and marred by an incipient moustache which, to Joe’s distress, was coming out red.

“They didn’t look for you till four,” he said in greeting. “They’re both out now. Want to look over the place? What you got in the bundle?”