“Oh, I mean to do that,” Deering answered. “Tell me, do you like Mr. Morris, Reggie; you’re such a—”
“I, oh I adore him,—in my way; but even so much is between you and me. He is a demi-god, the superman. As for me, I amuse him, interest him, baffle him a little, I hope; but he will never be fond of me. It will be a relief to Bill when I get out of his house.”
“Don’t you think it’s just that he’s never been sure whether or not he could trust you?” asked Tony.
Carroll for once started. “Trust me? Good heavens, Deering, I imagine the man takes me for a gentleman.”
“Oh, of course, that—I meant rather in other ways; if he counts on you to help out....”
“Oh!” Carroll exclaimed, with a tone of relief, “I dare say not.... I dare say not....” And for a while he seemed to think rather seriously. Tony wondered to himself how he had happened to stumble on what doubtless was a sore spot with his room-mate in his relation to the house-master. As for Carroll’s talk about Mr. Morris’s good opinion, Tony only took that half seriously. He hoped it was true, of course. Tony liked to be liked, as perhaps most people do.
Those were really golden days for him, which he was always to recall with a peculiar sense of pleasure. He was consciously happier than he had ever been before, because often at home there had been certain family shadows that dimmed the day. Life went well with him that first fall term. He seemed to catch the spirit of the school almost by intuition; indeed, as he said to himself one afternoon as he stood on the terrace in front of the Old School, looking down across the sloping meadows, past the ochre-colored beach, out upon Deigr Rock and a quivering ocean, it was in his blood: it was his inheritance and tradition to be a part of and to love Deal School.
He was quick and sensible enough to keep his classroom work up to the average, and though he did not distinguish himself as a scholar, he suffered very little from detention or pensums, those popular devices for the torture of the dull and the lazy. He had his long afternoons free, save for football. And football in that day, under what Tony ever felt was a wise dispensation of the Head’s, was never allowed to absorb more than an hour, except when a game was on. As it was, he always had a good hour or so of daylight in which with a congenial companion,—Jimmie, or Kit, or Carroll, often,—he could explore the surrounding country. And this for Tony soon became the most fascinating way of spending his time. Before the Michaelmas term was over he had got to know every path and by-way for five miles roundabout. To a boy who had eyes as well as wits there was a plenty to interest him in the region about Deal;—the bold and varied shore, with its rocks and beaches, its coves and caves, its points and necks, the abode of wild fowl of the sea; the rolling fertile country to the north; Lovel’s Woods; the quiet waters of Deal Great Pond; the quaint streets of the old town of Monday Port, with its rotting wharves and empty harbor.
This strange old town, despite everywhere the lingering touch of the summer invasion, with its suggestion of a vanished trade, in the winter was bereft of all save its memories of a bygone order of things; and with these memories, to an imaginative boy, the town seemed heavy. It required a special permission and a good excuse for any of the schoolboys, except the Sixth, to get the freedom of its streets. Tony was especially keen for such excuses and such freedom. His first walk there had been with Mr. Morris, who seemed to know the intimate stories of its houses, to be familiar with all its little secrets. In less conventional conversations Tony planned escapades for that direction; but as yet nothing very definite suggested itself. The penalties for being caught in Monday Port without the good excuse were considered excessive and usually not worth the risk. Mr. Morris had a glorious tale of the days when he was a schoolboy at Deal, of the actual exodus from the school by night of the whole Fifth, the boarding of a schooner that had lain dreaming in the sleepy harbor for a day or so, a thrilling sail into the open, and the overhauling of the pirate crew by the Head in a steam-launch. Those were the good old days of birching, and yes, Mr. Morris had caught it. He had smiled at the memory as if it were a pleasant one.
Golden days that more and more took the aspect of holidays as midst school strain and throbbing excitement, they drew near the day of the “great game” with Boxford, the rival school across the Smoke mountains.