Hitting the line

by Ralph Henry Barbour

Monty Crail sat in a spindle-backed wooden armchair with his feet on the sill of the low window, and his hands clasped behind his head, and dreamily watched a solitary star—it happened to be Venus, but Monty wasn’t aware of the fact—brighten momentarily in the western sky. It hung just midway between the topmost branches of the two elms across the street, and it required little imagination to almost detect the wire that held it there! Supper was over, and the other inhabitants of Morris House, saving Mrs. Fair and the maids, had either wandered off to other scenes or were loitering outside on the steps. Monty could hear the voices from around the corner of the house. Monty’s room was numbered—or, rather, lettered—“F,” and was on the second floor. There were three windows in it, one looking down on a small patch of lawn, and then across River Street, and, finally, in the general direction of Grafton Village, and two others, side by side, staring rather blankly at this season against the leafy screen of a big horse chestnut tree. Later, when the leaves were gone, those windows afforded a fine view of Lothrop Field and the tennis courts, and the diamond and the gridiron and running track, and, further away, glimpses of the Needham River that wound its quiet way past the southern confines of the school property. The twin casements were dormered, and the small alcove so formed was occupied on one side by a washstand, and on the other, a long shelf, which, with the aid of bright-hued cretonne curtains, formed a supplementary wardrobe designed to eke out the meager accommodations offered by a tiny closet.

The room, though small, was attractive. There were two cot beds, one on each side of the chamber, a brown oak study table in the center, two chiffoniers to match, the aforementioned washstand, two arm chairs of the Windsor pattern, a like number of straight-backed chairs, and a small stand. The center of the floor was spread with a brown grass rug and smaller ones lay in front of the door, and in the alcove. And there were, of course, lesser furnishings, such as a green-shaded electric drop-light on the table, a waste-paper basket with the appearance of having been used at some time as a football, a scarlet-and-gray cushion, which, because there was neither window-seat nor couch, led a restless life. Four pictures of no importance, and a large Grafton banner adorned the walls, and on one chiffonier were several photographs, framed and unframed. The walls were covered with a paper of alternating white and buff stripes which gave a sunshiny effect to the room. On the whole, Monty’s new home was cheerful and comfortable, and, while he would have preferred a study and bedroom in one of the campus dormitories, he was not at all dissatisfied.

He had been at Grafton twenty-eight hours, and, to be exact, fourteen minutes, reckoning from the time he had stepped from the barge at the corner of Lothrop, and in that time much of a not exciting nature had happened. He was reviewing that period now, his gaze fixed intently on the star. He had been conducted by Jimmy Logan in the august presence of Doctor Duncan, the principal, and had told his story. The Doctor—the fellows called him “Charley,” but Monty had not achieved that familiarity yet—had been visibly interested and amused. In the end he had picked up the telephone and consulted the school secretary with the result that Monty, bag in hand, had presently followed Jimmy across the campus to Morris House.

There Jimmy had left him, after extracting a promise to return later to 14 Lothrop, and Monty had been conducted upstairs by a stout and short-breathed lady whom the boys called “Mother Morris,” but whose real name was Mrs. Fair. Mrs. Fair was the matron, and what the fellows termed “a good sort.” Left to himself, Monty had wandered about the room, hands in pockets, looked out the windows, and finally unpacked his bag. After that there had seemed nothing to do save look up Jimmy and Dud, and so he had returned to Lothrop. By that time the campus and the dormitories presented a quite different appearance, for another train had come in, and boys of all sorts were in evidence on walks and in doorways, and on the stairs and in the corridors. One fell over a bag at every turn. Jimmy and Dud were hanging pictures and arranging their belongings, their trunks having arrived, and Monty had helped to the best of his ability. Now and then a boy had wandered in to say “Hello,” pour out a rapid fire of questions and answers, shake hands with Monty and hurry out again. And finally supper time had come, and Monty had gone back to Morris House and partaken of cold lamb and chicken salad and graham muffins and pear preserve and three glasses of milk at a long table, and in the presence of eleven other youths of assorted ages, sizes and looks. Monty had been introduced to them all, but acquaintanceship had for the time ended there. After supper he had wandered off for a walk along the twilight roads, and across the campus and past the buildings and had returned to Morris tired enough to go to bed and sleep.

He had found Room F in possession of a tall, loose-jointed youth, with tow-colored hair plastered greasily to his head, and a pair of pale, near-sighted eyes under colorless lashes. This was Alvin Standart, the rightful owner of one-half of Room F. Monty had met him at supper, but had not thought of him as a roommate. Standart seemed anything but delighted with the idea of sharing the apartment with the newcomer, and Monty, for his part, was not sensible of any particularly joyous emotions. Standart hadn’t impressed him favorably. He didn’t yet, after a day’s acquaintance. Standart, in the first place, didn’t look clean. Monty seriously doubted that he was. And he had unpleasant manners. Standart was the one fly in Monty’s ointment this evening. Everything else had turned out beautifully. The examination, conducted by Mr. Rumford, the assistant principal, had been far less severe than Monty had feared. He and three other rather anxious looking youths had assembled in a classroom in School Hall that morning after breakfast, and had been questioned as to their previous studies. Two simple problems in algebra, a sight translation of a dozen lines of Ovid, a test in German grammar, and the ordeal was over. Two of the applicants were passed into the Junior Class, and two into the Lower Middle, Monty being one of the latter. He had not impressed the instructor very deeply, he concluded, for “Jimmy” Rumford had viewed him for several long moments with an expression plainly dubious.

“Passing this test,” said the Assistant Principal, in conclusion, “doesn’t mean very much, young gentlemen. It means only that the school is giving you an opportunity. Whether you remain with us or flit away to other fields depends entirely on you. We don’t encourage loafers here. If you’ll all remember that it may save you future sorrow and regrets. Hand these slips to Mr. Pounder, the secretary, please, and he will assign you to your classes. If there is anything you want to know, you will find me here between eight and nine in the morning, and from five to six in the afternoon. You, er—Crail, ought to be in the Upper Middle Class, sir, but I don’t see my way to placing you there. If you’ll take my advice you will do your best to make the jump at the beginning of the next term. I think you can do it. That is all. Good morning, young gentlemen. Success to you.”

Recitations that day had been short, the time in each case having been largely consumed in arranging for future work. Monty found that his schedule included Latin, Mathematics, English, German (he had selected it instead of the alternative Greek) and Physical Training. Dud had, however, informed him that Physical Training was only for those who did not go in for a regular sport. The studies footed up to twenty hours a week, and Monty wondered whether he would survive the first week! That afternoon he had joined Dud and Jimmy and a new acquaintance named Brooks, and with them watched football practice. The fact that his playing togs were in his trunk, and that his trunk had scarcely yet started from New York prevented him from joining the candidates that afternoon. He had purposely refrained from checking his baggage to Greenbank yesterday, preferring to make certain first that he was to remain there, and while he had delivered the check to the agent here in Grafton at noon with reiterated requests to have the trunk forwarded as soon as possible, it was not likely that he would receive it before the next afternoon.

Football practice at Grafton was quite different from the same thing at Dunning Military Academy, he decided. At Dunning the squad seldom exceeded thirty candidates, while here the field was literally thronged with ambitious youths. At Dunning only the “hefty” ones were encouraged, but at Grafton it seemed that any size or shape of a boy could have a try-out. Only the juniors were barred, Jimmy explained. Ed Brooks—Brooks was a catcher on the baseball nine, Monty learned later—estimated the number of candidates in sight as close on eighty, which was very nearly a third of the total enrollment.

“There won’t be so many next week, though,” he added, pessimistically. “They fade away fast! Say, Bonner’s got a peach of a tan, hasn’t he?”