For the good of the team

by Ralph Henry Barbour

“No, but you have to have one quality that you haven’t, Stuart,” answered the other in good-humored raillery.

“What’s that?” asked Stuart suspiciously.

“Amenability,” replied Jack gravely.

“What’s amenability? You mean good nature? Rot!”

“Look it up when you get a chance,” laughed Jack. “Anyhow, you stick to captaining.”

“I believe I’ve been insulted, but no matter. Say, I ran across a couple of nice-looking plays this summer. They’re not new, of course, but we’ve never used them and they might be good medicine for Pearsall. Got a piece of paper? An old letter will do. That’s the ticket!” Stuart produced a pencil and the two boys leaned their heads close while it traced strange lines on the back of an envelope.

Half an hour later the friends parted, Stuart carrying his bag to Lacey Hall and Jack taking his to Meigs. They were to meet later for supper in the village; meals for the football candidates were to begin with breakfast in Lyceum House to-morrow; and meanwhile there were trunks to be unpacked. Stuart’s room, on the second floor of Lacey, had been prepared for his occupancy. One of the two small beds was made up and the accumulated dust of the summer had been removed. Stuart set his bag on the table and looked about him. The room, with its gray papered walls, its brown craftsman furniture, its two-tone blue rug and its pictures and trophies, was surprisingly like home, and he gave a sigh of satisfaction as he threw aside his coat and went to the end window. The sun had traveled past, and when he raised the shade and the lower sash a cool breeze entered, bringing with it a few dried ivy leaves from the stone sill. Below him lay a narrow strip of grass between the building and School Lane. The young maples that lined both sides of the way—the lane had been cut through but four years ago—were still green, but the leaves looked dry and tired, as though the hot summer had been almost too much for them. Across the graveled thoroughfare, seen from the window between the upper branches of the trees, was Memorial Building, the dining hall, its buff sandstone front, with its four tall columns, hot in the afternoon sunlight. Further to Stuart’s left stood the library; beyond it, the tennis courts. Straight ahead, the school grounds ended at an iron fence half hidden by shrubbery and vines, and then came an open field that descended to the placid, winding river. The new steel bridge over which High Street led was just visible past the corner of Memorial. Beyond it, nestling ’neath tall elms, spread the town. Two church spires, one slenderly conical and one square and dignifiedly squatty, pierced the greenery with their white forms, and now and then a weathered gray roof or a red-brown chimney peeked forth.

Safford was like half a hundred other Connecticut towns, quiet, as placid as the river that flowed around it and unvexed by the problems that beset larger communities. Twice a day the express paused for a moment at the little station and at four other times local trains tarried on their way up and down the valley. There were no street cars and, speaking comparatively, even automobiles were scarce. Safford’s only claim to renown was Manning School; and there had been occasions—perhaps there still are—when Safford’s inhabitants would have been willing to worry along without such fame. The celebrations of athletic victories occur only infrequently, however, and for the most part the townsfolk had no cause for complaint, and were doubtless glad enough of the presence of the big school across the river. I know the storekeepers were, anyway.

Stuart’s trunk arrived before he had quite finished washing off the dust of travel, and for nearly an hour after that he busied himself unpacking, stowing his things methodically away in drawers or hanging them neatly in the closet, in the latter process carefully taking up no more than his half of the hooks. The occupant of the other bed and proprietor of the second chiffonier would be along in a few days, and there must be space for his belongings. Neil Orr came from Stuart’s home city and represented the reason why Stuart was remaining in Lacey through his upper middle year instead of moving to Meigs as was the privilege, almost invariably taken advantage of, of the third-year students. Neil was a lower middle class fellow, and since he must remain in Lacey, Stuart had elected to remain with him. To his own belief at least, Stuart had acted as guide and protector to Neil during the previous year and he couldn’t conceive of Neil’s getting along without him. Perhaps he exaggerated his usefulness to Neil somewhat, but the motives that prompted him to forego life in the upper class dormitory were wholly creditable.

It was still too early for supper when he had finished his task and changed into a comfortable old suit, and, probably because Neil was still in his thoughts, he went down and crossed the old campus to Holton Hall. The northern half of the school property had become known as the old campus when School Lane had been cut through. It held five dormitories and Manning Hall, the latter accommodating the recitation rooms, the assembly hall and the offices. Of the five dormitories, Holton was the elder brother and stood back from the rest as though keeping a fraternal watch on them. Stuart was not sure that his visit would prove successful, for there still remained four days before the faculty members were required to report, but when he came within sight of the corner study which was his destination his doubts were removed. The two end windows on the lower floor were wide open and the brown silk sash curtains were pushed wide. Mr. Moffit, attired principally in a pair of discolored gray flannel trousers and a running shirt, was applying a piece of emery cloth to the head of a lofter when Stuart, accepting the invitation to enter, pushed the study door wide. A golf bag leaned against the morris chair at the instructor’s elbow, but it went to the floor with a rattle and crash of its contents when Mr. Moffit jumped up.