[CHAPTER XIV]
“CHAS”
Only one thing troubled Joe, which was that he couldn’t have Zephaniah with him. Faculty strongly disapproved of dogs, even very young and very small dogs, in the dormitories. So he made arrangements with a good-hearted stableman to look after the puppy and himself rigged up a home for it in an unused stall behind a litter of brooms and old harness and buckets. Puppy biscuit, which Merriman sternly decreed was to be its only food, was laid in lavishly, a china drinking bowl was supplied and Zephaniah, very unhappy at parting from his brothers and sisters and mother, was duly installed. The pun is not mine, but Myron’s. Joe visited the stable at least once a day and was to be seen stalking along the streets accompanied by a silly, frisking little atom at the end of a magnificent leather leash. Once away from the busy thoroughfares, the puppy was set free and had a glorious time. Frequently Myron went along on these excursions and the two boys often laughed themselves sick over the ridiculous antics of Zephaniah Q. Dobbins. Several times Merriman also joined them and took along Tess and her two remaining offspring, and at such times life was chock full of excitement and merriment. The weather was wonderful that autumn and those strolls about the outskirts of the town were events that remained in Myron’s memory long afterwards. They led to an ever-increasing intimacy between the three boys and Myron began to find existence at Parkinson really enjoyable. No one could fail to like Joe Dobbins or to admire his big-heartedness and sturdy honesty of purpose and deed, and Myron least of all. He saw now the kindness that had underlaid the indignity Joe had practised on him when he had been forcibly kept from meeting Paul Eldredge, and was grateful. He saw many other thoughtful and kindly acts as well. Joe’s rough ways, or ways that had seemed rough at first, were now only things to smile at. Myron was learning that there were many things less to be desired in a friend and room-mate than uncouthness. New clothes, too, had made a difference in Joe. Under Myron’s guiding hand he had purchased two plain but well-fitting suits—as well as the extra pair of trousers that Myron had advised and that Joe was now so proud of—and, in a way, he was living up to those suits. He had been good-naturedly guyed by many of his friends and acquaintances, of which he had dozens a week after the beginning of school, for the change wrought in his appearance had been well-nigh startling, but he hadn’t minded a bit: it took more than that to upset Joe’s equanimity. It was about the time that he first appeared in classroom in his new clothes that some fellow fell on the quite obvious nickname of “Whoa,” to which Joe was already accustomed, and from that time on he was “Whoa” Dobbins to the whole school. Only Myron and Andrew Merriman stuck to “Joe.”
Merriman required more knowing than Joe Dobbins. Although Myron had liked him at first acquaintance and grew to like him more as time went on, he never felt that he knew him as thoroughly as he knew the other. “Merry Andrew” at first meeting seemed perfectly understandable. At the second meeting you realised that most of him was below the surface. At subsequent meetings you despaired of ever knowing him thoroughly. He was the happiest, cheerfulest fellow Myron had ever encountered, and no one would have suspected that there was such a thing as a care in his life. And perhaps there weren’t many, either, for a care doesn’t become a care until you let it, and Merriman’s policy was not to let it. Of friends, at least close friends, beyond Joe and Andrew, Myron had none so far. He knew various fellows, most of them football chaps, but only casually. He didn’t make friends easily. It is only fair to acknowledge that there was something in Myron’s attitude, although he didn’t realise it, that warned fellows away. Popularity such as Joe might attain would never fall to his share.
So a fortnight passed and Parkinson played her second football game and began to find her stride. Cumner High School proved less of an adversary than expected and went down to defeat, 12 to 0. Myron didn’t get into action: didn’t expect to, for that matter: and neither did Joe. Joe, however, expected to, and was a little disappointed and decidedly restive while he and Myron watched from the bench. Inaction didn’t suit Joe a bit. Garrison, who had played the position last season on the scrub eleven, stayed in at right guard until the last quarter and then Mills, a recent discovery of Coach Driscoll’s, was given a chance. Mills, a big, yellow-haired infant of seventeen, proved willing and hard-working, but he was woefully inexperienced, and only the fact that Cumner had already shot her bolt and was playing a strictly defensive game kept him in until the final whistle.
Joe’s hero on the team was Leighton Keith, who played right tackle. Joe expatiated for whole minutes at a time on Keith’s work and rather bored Myron. “Honest, Joe,” he protested, “I think he plays perfectly good ball and all that, but I don’t see where he has anything on Mellen, or even Flay.”
Joe shook his head. “You aren’t watching him, Myron. You’ve got to know the position, too. I’ve played tackle, kiddo, and I know what a guy’s up against. I’ll tell you about Keith and Mellen. Mellen’s a fair, average tackle, a heap better on attack than defence, I guess, but Keith’s more than that. He—look here, it’s like this. Know those dollar ‘turnips’? Well, they keep right good time, don’t they?”
“Some of them,” agreed Myron.
“Most of them, Brother. Well, Mellen’s like a dollar watch. Looks good outside and works all right inside. Dependable and all that. All right! Now did you ever cast your eye over a nice hundred and fifty dollar watch all dotted over inside with jewels and all glisteny with little wheels and dudads? Sure! That’s Keith. He works just like the innards of that watch, kiddo. Every move’s exact. He never misses a tick. He’s smooth-running and guaranteed. He—he’s an artist! I’d just as lief see Keith play tackle as see old Josh Reynolds paint one of his million-dollar portraits.”
“Reynolds is dead,” laughed Myron.