Guarding His Goal

by Ralph Henry Barbour

Arnold and Frank parted from him on the steps and Toby made his way across the yard, past the sun-dial at the meeting of the paths in front of Dudley and, finally, through the colonnade that joined Oxford and Whitson and so around to the entrance of his dormitory. As he went he puzzled again over the friendship that existed between Arnold and Frank. Personally, he thought Frank Lamson the most unlikeable fellow he had ever met. Perhaps, though, he reflected, Frank possessed some qualities apparent to Arnold and not to him. The two had been friends, though never exactly chums, for several years, while Toby and Arnold had known each other only since the preceding June. Probably when you had known a fellow three or four years you got to like him in spite of his—his faults. Toby almost said “meannesses,” but charitably substituted the other word. Of course, there was no reason why Arn shouldn’t go with Frank if he wished to, only—well, for a fortnight or so preceding Christmas recess Arn had spent a good deal more time with Frank than he had with Toby, and the latter wondered, as he climbed the twilight stairways to his room, whether Arn was beginning to get tired of him. He was very fond of Arnold and the contingency made him feel rather sad and lonely.

He shed his sweater and cap and seated himself at the deal table, which just now was a study desk and not an ironing-board, and drew a book toward him. But his thoughts refused to interest themselves in Cæsar and he was soon staring out the window and drumming a slow tattoo on his teeth with the rubber tip of his pencil. Perhaps it was only imagination, but, looking back on the last two weeks of vacation, it seemed to him now that Arnold had been less chummy, that something of the wonderful friendship of the summer had been lacking. Of course, Arnold had been perfectly splendid to him, had given him an awfully good time in New York and had probably given up other good times in order to spend that week-end with him at Greenhaven. And there were the gold cuff-links, too. Toby arose and got them from a hidden corner of the top drawer in the bureau and took them back to the window and looked at them admiringly and even curiously, as though striving to draw reassurance from them. In the end he laid them on the table and sank back into his chair. They were handsome and costly, but they meant little, after all. Arnold had heaps of money to spend; as much, perhaps, as any fellow in school. Doubtless he would have given him something equally as fine had their friendship been far less close. Why, for all he knew, Arn might have given just such a Christmas present to Frank Lamson! A wave of something very much like jealousy went over him and he scowled at the cuff-links quite ferociously and pushed them distastefully aside. Just that afternoon he had noticed a new pin in Frank’s tie, a moonstone, he thought it was, held in a gold claw. It was just the sort of a thing that Arnold would select. In fact, now that he thought of it, Arnold had a pin very much like it! There was no doubt in the world that that moonstone scarf-pin had been Arnold’s Christmas present to Frank, and Toby suddenly felt very, very miserable.

The daylight faded and the words on the pages of the open book were no longer legible, although that was a matter of indifference to Toby since he wasn’t looking at them. What Toby was doing was something far less commendable and useful than studying his Latin. He was imagining all sorts of uncharitable things about Arnold and trying to recall all the faults that Frank Lamson had ever exhibited and making himself extremely miserable. And finally he arose with a shrug of his broad shoulders and lighted the gas and pulled down the shade. After that he scooped the cuff-links up contemptuously and tossed them back into the bureau drawer.

“Let him,” he muttered. “Who cares, anyway? He’s not the only fellow in school! I guess I can find some one else to chum with if I make up my mind to do it.” He closed the bureau drawer with a bang. “He won’t ever see me wearing those things. Maybe he bought them for Frank and Frank didn’t like them, or something! He can have ’em if he wants ’em. I’m sure I don’t!”

After that, since there were no clothes to be cleaned or pressed this afternoon, he resolutely tried to study, and really did manage to imbibe a certain amount of knowledge by the time the supper hour came. He and Arnold had managed to secure seats at the same table in commons (Yardley Hall, founded by an English schoolmaster, still retained a few English terms); but they had not been able to get seats together, and save on infrequent occasions when some boy’s absence made a rearrangement possible they were divided by the width of the table. Supper was usually a jolly and enjoyable meal for Toby, as it was for most others, but to-night he was plainly out of sorts, and when Arnold came in a trifle late and sank into his chair looking flushed and happy, he became more morose than ever. Arnold’s greeting was answered coldly, but Arnold failed to notice the fact and went to work with a good will on the cold meat and baked potatoes which formed the principal course. There was a good deal of talk and laughter that evening amongst the ten occupants of Table 14, and consequently Toby’s silence and gloom went unnoted by any one until supper was almost over. Then Arnold, appealing to Toby for confirmation of a story he had been narrating, was met with such a chilling response that he paused open-mouthed and stared across at his friend.

“Well, what’s wrong with you, T. Tucker?” he asked wonderingly.

“Nothing,” replied Toby, very haughtily.

Several other fellows turned to observe him and the younger of the two Curran brothers laughed and said: “Oh, Tucker’s peeved because trade’s fallen off. Every fellow had his trousers pressed at home, I guess.”

Jack Curran frowned at his brother. “Cut that out, Will,” he growled. “Try to act like a gentleman even if it hurts you. I say, Glad, I found that book I told you about. If you want it, come around, will you?”